Page 26 of We'll Meet Again

“Mrs. Harvey?” he replied. “We met my first day here. Similar to what you saw outside. I was coming back with my own groceries and saw her struggling with her walker, so I carried hers too. Introduced myself and told her which door was mine if she ever needed anything.”

There was something to be said about a man with such an instinct to help others. Especially one who was famous. For him to offer up his address to someone was pretty bold, but it stood to reason that Mrs. Harvey probably had no idea who Ethan was. That seemed to suit him just fine.

“I suppose that Southern hospitality thing is true then,” Billie remarked.

“Oh, absolutely,” he said. “We get to know our neighbors where I’m from. Living next to somebody and not knowing a thing about them? That dog just ain’t gon’ hunt.”

“I assume that means it won’t do,” she guessed.

“Yes, ma’am.”

She ignored the heat in her belly when he called herma’am, but had to turn her head toward the wall so he wouldn’t see the color in her cheeks. How did this guy have such an effect on her? When they reached her door, she opened it and allowed him to take her bags all the way to the kitchen, where he set them carefully on the table.

“Where’s Tessa?” he asked, glancing around the room.

“Out with her vintage friends,” she told him. “They meet once a week for tea and brunch before they go looking for more stuff for the showcase.”

It hit her as if she’d slammed on brakes while driving in traffic. She was alone in her flat. With Ethan. Just the two of them. Anything could happen. In fact, a fleeting image of him striding over and claiming her lips with his came to her mind, but she shook her head to banish it. He had noticeably left the front door open. She cleared her throat and gestured toward the bags.

“Thanks for carrying those,” she said.

“Sure thing,” he said, and paused for a moment. “Neighbor.”

With a wink, he swept out of the flat, closing the door behind him. Once again, his absence made her chest feel like a cavern, in stark contrast to the completeness she felt when he was around.

Billie tapped her pen against her chin as she debated how to answer an email, the cursor blinking at her, mocking the blank in her mind. Truthfully, all she could think about was Ethan and the moment the previous day. She kept picturing that sweet look on his face as he helped Mrs. Harvey in, and how he helped her as well. It had taken all her self control not to kiss him the moment she realized they were alone in the flat. But where did it come from? How had he taken such hold of her mind?

“Billie.”

She turned and looked up, locking eyes with Tony. She quickly dropped her gaze. Things between them had been…awkward since their confrontation. At least on her end. He appeared totally unfazed and behaved as if he hadn’t said anything inappropriate at all. But she couldn’t get past it.

And my job certainly does not entail catering to your stupid fucking feelings, is that clear?The statement kept ringing in her ears. She understood it well, and would not make the mistake of letting him know her feelings again.

“Yes, sir?” she said, her tone clipped.

“Take this out to Knight,” he said, holding out a packet of papers. “They want him onDayside Londonin the morning, and he needs to sign this release.”

Billie’s brows knit together.Dayside Londonwas a morning show that didn’t normally cover athletes. Of course, Ethan was quickly becoming a character for the press; between his accent, his weird phrases, and his oddly mysterious past, they had plenty to talk about. But the target audience for this show was middle-aged women. What did they want with a footballer?

“Has he already agreed?” she asked.

“His agent has, and that’s enough,” Tony said. “Just bring these back with his signature.”

He dropped the papers on her desk and walked away. Heaving a sigh, Billie shrugged on her coat and headed out toward the pitch, the papers tucked underneath her arm.

The cold bit at her cheeks and nose as she made her way onto the grass. For some reason, Ethan was alone out there. He stood behind a line of balls as he let out a low breath. She stood on the touchline, watching as he settled into his stance.

“Left post,” he said, the words appearing as vapor in the chilly air.

He lurched toward the first ball, right foot swinging back. It struck the ball cleanly, and as Billie watched, the ball rocketed right into the named target with a clang that echoed around the empty pitch. He hit the right post next with equal accuracy, followed just after by the crossbar. It was as if a magnet connected his laces to the ball, making it strike precisely where he wanted. He hit all four corners and the center of the net next, barely taking a breath in between each kick.

For those few minutes, Billie forgot her purpose of being there, and she just observed, amazed.

She never really thought football took so much skill, but up close, she could see the subtle differences in the shots. He had to carefully choose which part of his foot would make contact with the ball in order for it to go in the right direction, and which foot to use. He was stronger with his right, but his left was nothing to sneer at either. His standing leg used just as much power as the leg that was kicking. Suddenly, he seemed larger than she remembered.

When he went to retrieve the balls to line them up again, he finally saw her. When he smiled, she recognized the sweet neighbor boy from the day before, but she had a newfound respect for what he could do.

“Hey, neighbor!” he called, and jogged over.

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