Page 35 of The Check Down

It’s a stuffed dragon, well-loved and a little threadbare in patches.

“What’s this?”

She snatches it out of my grip and hugs it to her chest, her shoulders curling around it protectively. “Uh, nothing.” Her face flames the brightest I’ve seen it as she steps back like she’s considering crawling under the bed.

The need to comfort her rears up so fast it takes my breath away.

Deciding she’ll probably recover quicker if I ignore her reaction, I reach for the nearest tub and pull off the top right as Brynn shouts, “You don’t have to—”

The tub is labeledfragile, and it’s filled to the brim with an assortment of dragons—figurines, snow globes, statues, and smaller plush reptiles—are dragons considered reptiles? There are fierce creatures ready to take flight or scorch an enemy. Cute pastel-colored critters nestled among clouds and flowers. Iridescent dragons. Clear glass dragons. Some painted an array of colors, and some whose scaly details are etched into a single shade of gray or black or green. They range in size, too. Some are no bigger than my palm and some look like they could be used as a weapon to knock someone out.

“You collect dragons.”

With an audible swallow, she nods. “Yeah.”

It’s clear she’s mortified. She shouldn’t be. I’m desperate to know all facets of Brynn. This is another piece of who she is, and it’s adorable as fuck.

I pull one of the black dragon figurines from the pile. “This guy is badass.”

Her shoulders relax a fraction. “My parents brought him home from Poland a few summers ago.”

“No shit?” I hold him up higher and run my finger down the intricate scales and spikes along his tail.

“No shit.” She loosens her tight grip on the stuffed dragon she’s clutching to her chest. Her brown eyes search mine for a second, and when they soften a fraction, I know she’s going to let me in. “This is Barnaby. My dad brought him home when I was eleven. I had the flu. He told me I needed a dragon protector to fight off sickness and loneliness. I’ve slept with him almost every night since.”

Fuck. A strange, uncomfortable sensation climbs up my spine.Am I jealous of a stuffed dragon?

“Who named him Barnaby?”

“I did.”

“And was Barnaby the start to your dragon collection?”

“Hmm, pretty much.” She perches on the edge of the mattress and tucks one leg beneath her.

The expanse of bare skin I’m only now noticing instantly causes my mouth to water. In a pair of navy gym shorts with the Townes logo stamped on one thigh, she swings the leg still hanging off the bed in a lazy arc that is doing its damnedest to hypnotize me. As she launches into her story, all I can think about is wrapping those creamy, bare thighs around my hips.

“While I was sick in bed, I read this book about a boy who finds a mysterious rock in the mountains. It turns out to be a dragon’s egg. I devoured the story, basically made it my wholepersonality, as a bookish kid tends to do. I sketched dragons in an old notebook. They were terrible. I amnotan artist. But my parents nurtured my interest. They gave me figurines and whatnot for holidays and birthdays and just because. When they traveled, they brought new ones for my collection. Still do. Rather than posters of cute boys, the walls of my bedroom were covered with mystical dragon posters through middle school and high school.”

I set the badass black dragon on the chest of drawers next to the door. “Feel free to hang cool dragon posters up in here.”

She loosens a sweet laugh.

“Really,” I say. “I want you to make this place feel like your home while you’re here.”

“Thank you.” Her eyes shine, but she blinks back the emotion. “And thank you for the moving truck, even though it was totally unnecessary.” She places Barnaby between her pillows. “I met Seth earlier, by the way.”

I grin. “He’s intense, right?”

“He certainly takes his job seriously. I’ve been thoroughly briefed on the inner workings of Team Lacey. Game day and practice schedules, housekeeper schedules, food delivery schedules, haircut schedules.” The corner of her mouth kicks up. “But alas, no tailor schedules were shared.”

I’m grinning so wide my cheeks hurt. “I told you, professor. That’s classified.” My tailor, who lives and works in Nashville, is not a secret, but I like that she’s so curious. If I’m not careful, though, this woman will have me sharing all of my secrets with her.

Like how I’m pretty sure I’m gonna have to bolt out of here and jerk off in the shower if her shorts ride up any higher.

Fuck.

Fuckity fucking fuck.

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