Page 16 of Tackle

She was still on a high from her date with Oz. Not even the prospect of mopping the floor could get her down.

Grabbing the cleaning supplies from the hall closet, she made her way to the kitchen and was just rolling the suds-filled bucket into the dining room when she heard a tap against the glass of the front door. Thinking it was a patron who’d left something behind, she was surprised when she got close enough to make out the face that peered through.

Oz.

She quickly twisted the deadbolt and pulled open the door. “What are you doing here?” She’d left his apartment less than a half hour ago.

His brows raised. “Can’t a guy visit his favorite eating establishment?”

“It’s usually customary to do that when it’s open.”

He shrugged a shoulder. “Potatoes, potahtoes.”

Emerson threw her hands on her hips and smiled in exasperation at his hedging. “Why are you really here?” Maybe he’d come to give her the goodnight kiss she’d missed out on.

Their parting after their date had been in true Oz style.

Awkward.

When it had been time for her to leave so she could get back to the pub, he’d walked her down to her car. Then after gallantly opening her door, she’d stood in it and waited, looking up at him with anticipation and him looking down at her, gazing into her eyes while holding her hand. He slowly leaned in, her heart pounding with excitement and…

Quickly kissed her on the cheek before wishing her a good night.

Was she disappointed? Maybe a little.

But that was okay because he was there now.

“Well, to be honest,” he said, pulling her from her musings.

Her heartbeat quickened in anticipation. “Yes?”

“I don’t like that you’re here alone when the place closes or that you leave to an empty parking lot. I’m here to make sure you get home safely.”

Not what she’d been expecting but still sweet, nonetheless. “You didn’t need to do that. I’ve been locking up alone for months. Nothing’s ever happened.”

“And now, nothing will.” He spied the mop and bucket sitting in the middle of the room. “Do you want me to mop or move tables and chairs?”

Taken aback, she asked, “You’re going to help?”

“Well, I’m not going to sit in the corner and watch.”

Emerson laughed, not planning to argue. She’d gladly take Oz’s help. “I’ll mop, you move furniture.”

They were finished in half the time it usually took her. Having a big, strong guy to lift tables and chairs as if they weighed nothing at all really sped up the process.

She stepped out of the hall after putting away the cleaning supplies. “Let me grab my purse and we can get out of here.” It was late and she knew Oz had to get up early in the morning for practice.

He stood waiting for her by the front door.

She hit the alarm panel, literally pushed Oz out the door, and quickly followed before turning the key in the lock.

Giggling self-consciously, she explained her erratic behavior. “I’m not sure why that always makes me so nervous. I’m worried I’m going to take too long by dropping my keys or something—and the alarm will go off. Then the cops will come and it will be a big thing. So embarrassing.” She shook her head. “And it’s worse when I open. I’m so worried I’m going to forget the alarm code, I recite it all the way from my car. I even have it written down in three places—in my glovebox, my wallet, and on my phone. I’m usually so unflappable, but I can’t shake the fear of this one thing, even after years of management.”

Oz took her hand as they walked to her car. “You want to know what I do when I’m nervous out on the field?”

She looked up at him. “What?”

“I breathe.”

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