Page 49 of The Lucky One

Shadows of the man sitting in front of me existed on St. Brigid's Eve. He tried hard to hide it and did a pretty great job—but I could see it peeking around the edges. His heartache matched mine, even if we didn’t know it yet.

Only his related to his job, and mine included a relationship. We have a common ground here, and I know what he’s going to say before he even says it.

He doesn’t know what the future holds for him. But that’s okay because I don’t either.

“Bridget—I don’t know what’s beyond football.”

He gazes at me with such sincere honesty I stand, and move my barstool closer to him, right up beside the high top table.

“I don’t know what I want to do, either.” I shrug. Maybe he’ll hate that about me, but he deserves to know that. It’s time weshy away from the hard conversations. “Wedding planning was my life pretty much since I started to work. Even before. It was my mother’s legacy.”

“Football is mine.” He sighs. “Is she?—”

“No.” I shake my head. “She’s not dead. We’re just… not speaking right now.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

He’s earnest in his apology and I suspect he must have wonderful parents to feel that way. But I’m not sorry—not really. She did some unspeakable things and I needed out from beneath that.

I chew on my lip thoughtfully. “Sometimes you have to protect your peace. I tried to stick it out, but it wasn’t worth the misery she caused.”

“And Andrew?” One hand cradles the other as he absently fidgets with his hands just below the surface of the table.

“A call I shouldn’t have answered. I panicked. He’s licking his wounds because I caught him in a lie and finally stood up for myself.”

And he’s too busy with his secret relationships he thought I didn’t know about. I can’t imagine a marriage where people aren’t committed to each other, but clearly they exist. He’s welcome to that kind of life.

I deserve more.

Weston is quiet for a long moment, so I reach out and cover his hands with mine. Something to help him know that he’s not fighting these feelings alone. Quietly, he lifts our joined hands to his lips and kisses mine.

“I meant what I said earlier, Bridget. You’re enough.”

“I’ve got a lot of baggage. A lot. It’s going to require unpacking and sorting through and a heavy trash day.”

He chuckles. “We all have baggage. It’s life. Are you afraid of any baggage I might bring with me?”

“No.”

I’m surprised at how easily I can answer that. But again, Weston doesn’t hide anything.

“Do you think I’d be afraid of yours?”

“No.” Again, such an easy answer when I’m not overthinking the question.

He pauses, his thumb stroking my hand nervously.

“Would it bother you that I might not be the same if I go back? My career might not be the same. That I might have to retire early?”

In this moment, I regret not being more knowledgable about his career beyond what I’ve googled late at night when I can’t sleep. I should be watching clips and asking more questions so I can understand how deep football goes in his life.

So I chew on my answer carefully because I want him to know that it’s not important to me, not beyond the fact that I know it’s important to him. But I don’t want it to sound callous.

“Weston—I know football is important to you. I want you to feel fulfilled, but I also want you to be safe. You’re more than football.”

Maybe I didn’t see that when we first met, but I had blinders on. Insomany ways.

He shutters out a breath and smiles. “We barely know each other, Spitfire. Is this crazy?”

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