Page 49 of Trapped and Tackled

Leni: You can’t just demand that we need to talk, Talon.

Me: Fine. Can I take you for an early dinner, please? I’d like to talk to you.

Me: I’m a dumbass and I messed up.

Me: I want to have a fun weekend with you.

Me: And I want to apologize—for real—before we begin our drive.

There. I laid it all out. I know I messed up. I shouldn’t have kissed her, but I did anyway. I crossed the fucking line and now, I need to backtrack. But ignoring her or pushing her away isn’t going to help when we’re going to spend the next two days together.

The dots appear again.

Leni: Fine. Thirty minutes.

I grin.

Me: See you soon, babe.

Leni: (eye roll emoji)

Chuckling softly to myself, I slip my phone into my pocket and stride out of the training facility.

The sky is clear, a bright blue without a cloud in sight. The heat wraps around me and I soak it in. After a handful of years in cool, rainy Oregon, I’ve come to love the hot days of Tennessee. My flip-flops smack against the pavement as I walk to my SUV.

I drop my gym bag in the trunk, beside my weekend bag, and grin.

I’m going to have a good fucking weekend with Leni. I’m not going to cross any lines or put either of us in a compromising position.

We’re friends, right?

Friends can hang out, chill, and have a good time together.

That’s what this weekend will be for me and Leni.

I can feel it.

I was fucking wrong.

Shocking, right?

But what the hell was I thinking?

Parked in front of Leni’s parents’ house, I watch as she glides down the front porch. She was already outside and waiting when I pulled up and, Christ, does she look gorgeous.

Her hair bounces around her shoulders, her eyes—that gorgeous cerulean blue—are hidden behind a pair of oversized sunglasses, but I can imagine them sparking.

And how messed up is that? I can imagine what her eyes look like as she watches me pull into her driveway.

I put the gearstick in park before sliding out.

“Hey!” I lift a hand in greeting.

“Hey,” she calls back, her expression carefully neutral. What the hell does that mean?

I move toward her, taking her cute, pink weekender bag off her shoulder.

“I got it,” she mutters while letting me slip it off her arm.

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