Page 13 of A Fighting Chance

“Again, please don’t call me ma’am. I know you’re just trying to be polite, but it makes me feel ancient. Can you just call me Lyla?” I ask.

He swallows, and I realize the weight of this request on anyone who grew up in the south. It’s a big deal. Especially given how long we’ve known each other, which isn’t really long enough for this sort of thing.

“I think I can manage,” he says, nodding his head. The tension in his shoulders ease.

“Good. I’m just sorry in general about yesterday. In truth, it was a very long day, and I just didn’t handle it well on top of being sleep deprived and tired.” He considers my words and I add, “Please just accept the apology instead of countering with why I don’t need to apologize.”

His smile widens at this. “Okay. I accept your apology, but I want the record to show it was under duress and coercion.”

I laugh and nod. “Noted.”

“Anything else?” he asks.

“How long have you been living with my grandparents?” I ask him.

“A few months now,” he says.

When he doesn’t add anything else, I’m not sure whether to ask a follow up question or leave it alone.

Then he says, “Let’s just say I was living with someone and then I needed to…not live with them anymore.”

“Oh, I see,” I say.

He shrugs his shoulders, and we continue on in an awkward silence for several more minutes.

“Look, what do you say we start over?” I ask. “Maybe we can just forget the bathroom incident and have a clean slate? Friends?”

A rugged, deep laugh is in his throat, but it doesn’t escape his lips.

We near the porch and he turns to face me. It’s so abrupt and I’m still moving forward; so, by the time I stop my forward motion, we’re close. And by close, I mean there are parts of our fronts touching and I want to concentrate on his smoldering gaze, his hooded emerald eyes, but all I can think in my brain is:HIS FRONTS ARE TOUCHING YOUR FRONTS, LYLA.

He places his hand on my side and leans down a bit. I can feel his hot breath on my skin as he says, “Forgive me, Lyla, but no man on earth, no god in heaven, could make me forget the bathroom incident.” He smirks, and his gaze travels over my chest and stomach then up my throat, stopping to linger on my mouth for a moment.

He bites his bottom lip—and I can’t find any words in my brain.

Where are my words?

Where are the emergency heart paddle things for these chest pains?

The way he says my name—like it’s a secret. His growling tone. I can’t handle it.

“Um, I, um…” I manage.

He laughs again, a teasing expression on his face. All at once, he releases me. The heat from his gaze is gone, his hand is gone, his front gone. My skin feels cool with his sudden departure, and a shiver replaces the warmth.

“Do you want some lunch?” he asks, his expression now benign, his tone flat.

What the hell?

I nod. It’s all I can manage.

Six

Lyla

Gentry doesn’t talk.

He doesn’t talk the entire time we eat lunch. He doesn’t talk while he clears our plates. He doesn’t talk beyond cursory manners. And then, he departs, going back to work, which leaves me sitting in the kitchen, confused and…sort of hot. Like hot and bothered. Not actually hot, since the air conditioner is pretty good in the house.

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