Page 33 of Trapped and Tackled

“A friend,” Avery repeats.

I take a pull of my beer. I need to steer this conversation in a different direction. And fast. “But after meeting some of her friends, I get why Coach is worried.”

Avery leans closer, as if pulled by the edge in my tone. “You think something’s wrong?”

I bite my bottom lip, considering his words. “I don’t know. But there’s something there…something that isn’t adding up.” The way she looks like she’s holding herself together. Her sudden return to Knoxville from New York—which Coach said was her dream when she first accepted an internship there. Her reaction to her best friend’s boyfriend, Toby. And…the way I’m drawn to her. The protectiveness she evokes from me. “There’s…something.” I’m not making any damn sense.

Avery hangs his head, partially in defeat. “Yeah.” He looks back up. “Just make sure the something stays in your fucking pants.”

I stare at him, getting his warning loud and clear.

Don’t fuck around with Coach’s kid. I get it.

But I don’t bother refuting his assumption. Because there is something between Leni and me. Something I shouldn’t want and yet desire. Something I shouldn’t feel but am still leaning into.

It’s just dinner. Nothing’s happened. I haven’t crossed a line.

Yet.

At the look in Avery’s eyes, I know he knows it too. “Fuck,” he mutters. “Use your head, Miller. Don’t throw away everything you’ve worked for, everything you’ve earned…”

“I’m not,” I say softly, spinning my pint glass in between my palms. “I’m just looking out for her. That’s it.”

“Yeah.” Avery snorts. “I’ve heard that before.”

I’m sure he has. And still, his warning doesn’t deter me. Not the way it should.

His conversation doesn’t distract me.

I still spend the rest of the night thinking about Leni and our dinner tomorrow night. Even though it’s all wrong.

Even though I know better.

Chapter 9

Leni

I texted Talon a list of ingredients early this morning.

He responded with a green check mark, letting me know he picked up everything we need.

God, I’m nervous. I drag my palms over my denim skirt. I paired it with a sage green bodysuit and plain white sneakers. But riding the elevator up to Talon’s place has my heart in my throat and my fingers clutching at the stiff denim.

The only man I’ve ever cooked for was Craig, and we were living together. It was one of Craig’s expectations and I carried out my duties well, fulfilling every whim he had. And it still wasn’t enough.

But tonight, I want to cook for Talon. I want to spend time with him, away from any watching eyes.

He’s the last man I should date. Not that this is a date or anything.

And still, my heart flutters like butterfly wings against my rib cage, and that trickle of nervous anticipation I used to relish drips down my spine.

Could it be a date? Are we really friends? Or is there potential for more?

When the elevator arrives at his floor, I let out a deep exhale, fix the front pieces of my hair that have fallen out of my loose braid, and hitch my purse that contains a bottle of wine, higher on my shoulder. Then, I stride to Talon’s door and knock twice.

He pulls it open a heartbeat later and my eyes widen.

He’s dressed casually, in a pair of ripped jeans and a black T-shirt that hugs his biceps, making them pop. His feet are bare, his stance relaxed as he leans against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest.

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