Halfway through another round of beers, Paige invites Brynn to meet her and some of the WAGs at some hair place. The happiness evident in Brynn’s demeanor is almost enough to quell the jealousy from before. Almost.
After Beau and I pay our tabs, the bartender sidles up to the table. “Hey guys, uh, seems a slight crowd’s gathered outside. A few photographers. Guess word got out that you’re here.” He gives an apologetic shrug and collects our receipts.
My QB and I exchange a look. This is the first time I’ve had to deal with this since moving to Memphis, but it comes with the privilege of playing the sport we love on the biggest stage. It’s a necessary evil I’ve been accustomed to for a long time.
Paige has been a part of Beau’s life long enough to understand it, but Brynn’s never had to deal with nosy photographers following her home or shouting rude questions at her.
At the thought, a fierce protectiveness rises in my chest. I’d do just about anything to shield her from all of it.
But we can’t stay here all night.
“We’ll take the lead,” Beau offers. “We parked around the corner, so some will follow us. That’ll leave fewer for y’all to deal with.”
Brynn and I follow them to the door, though we stay hidden as they step out into the fray. The six paps hovering on the sidewalk break into a snapping frenzy, bright lights flashing and questions hurling like mad.
“Whoa,” Brynn breathes beside me. “It’s like feeding time for the sharks at an aquarium.”
“Yeah. I’m sorry about all this.”
She smiles up at me and says, “Lead the way, Lacey.”
Beau’s gamble about splitting them up proves fruitful. When I open the door to the cool night breeze, only three photographers remain. Still, they crowd the space outside the bar like they’re making a goal-line stand. The best way to handle them has always been to maintain a brisk pace all the way down the street, so I rest my hand on my lower back and signal for Brynn to take it with a finger wiggle.
Within seconds, her delicate fingers interlock with mine. Then I cut a path through the photographers and a few rubberneckers who’ve been drawn to the camera flashes.
All the way down South Main, all I can think is how fucking perfect her hand feels in mine.
Chapter eight
Griffin
Itypeallergic to kiwionto the ever-growing Brynn Nelson note in my phone, then scroll through the entries I’ve added since she moved in:Dragon collector. Morning person. Swims on campus M, W, F. Likes tea before bed some nights—black tea only on weekends. Loves candles. Terrible atMario Kart. Scared of spiders.
I thumb back to the bottom and addloves french toast. As I slide my phone into the back pocket of my jeans, I make a mental note to ask Mom how to make fucking french toast. Because the pure joy on Brynn’s face when our waitress slid that plate in front of her? Fucking breathtaking. And I’m desperate to see it again.
To be the cause of it.
“Mmm,” she moans around a forkful of her breakfast.
The sound causes me to drop my fork onto the table with a clatter. Before I can catch it, it falls to the floor.
I signal to our waitress for a clean one, and once I have it, I duck my head and dig into my omelet, hoping like hell I can ignore any more sounds likethatfrom the woman across from me.
We’ve lived together for five days now, and I’ve taken myself in hand in the shower every morning for the past four days. Wishing it was her hand instead.
This is a fucking problem.
“French toast might be a close second to soft pretzels, by the way.” She takes another bite that leaves a dusting of powdered sugar on the corner of her mouth.
I resist the urge to swipe it away with my thumb, instead dipping my chin to silently signal its presence.
“Oh.” Warmth suffuses her cheeks as she wipes it away. “My dad made it for breakfast every Sunday.”
“Our Sunday morning breakfast tradition was biscuits and gravy. Donna Lacey makes a sausage gravy that puts all others to shame.” Memories of the piles of fluffy buttermilk biscuits overflowing from the bread basket in the middle of our kitchen table make my mouth water. “We’d race to the table, hoping to be the first to slather on the fresh-churned butter while Mom finished up the gravy at the stove. Most weekends, she baked canned biscuits. Homemade ones take so long, and the gravy is plenty time-consuming. But my granny moved in with us after Gramps passed, and from then on, we got her homemade biscuits and Mom’s gravy, and we Lacey boys lived like kings.”
“You’re close with your family.” Her statement is punctuated with a serene smile. “I wish I lived closer to my parents. I miss them.”
“Have them come up. Take them to a game.” I’ve invited Brynn to attend the past two games, but she declined. I’ll wear her down, though. I’m not above recruiting Paige to help.