Page 4 of Your Secret to Keep

Should I try to get a photo of us at dinner? Honestly, I don’t know if anyone would believe me if I told them this story. The sound of a glass being set down brings me back to the table where it’s only Brooks and me. When did the hostess even leave?

I try to keep the nervous laughter to a minimum when Brooks locks his eyes, the color of warm caramel, on mine.

“I’m Brooks,” he waves, and I’m still waiting for him to say this is a joke. But then he continues. “Even though this isn’t the date you had planned, I'm comfortable saying I’m probably better than whoever the fuck the guy was.”

Smiling and laughing, now at Brooks Pittman instead of as my standard defense mechanism, I reply, “I know who you are.” I take a long drink of water, thankful for the ice.

“You do?” His face is etched with doubt, evident by the raised brows and side-eye glance.

I need to choose what kind of woman I am in this situation: the one who simply knows he’s a professional athlete, or Lia Stone: lifelong Jags fanatic and sports obsessed.

Slowly breathing in, I choose to be myself and go for it. “Brooks Pittman, shooting guard for the Jersey Jaguars. You played college basketball at The University of Alabama, where you basically bullied and willed your team to make the tournament your senior year.” I sit back and get comfortable—each word has Brooks jaw falling a little bit more. “You took the Tide all the way to the Elite Eight and lost with a buzzer beater half-court shot. Heartbreaking. And when it comes to the Jags, you typically play the two, but I think the team has a better point differential when you’re at the three.”

“Oh. My. God,” he says, shaking his head in disbelief.

I don’t typically like to show off my knowledge of how the basketball positions translate to numbers for player sets and rotations, but I think my drink got a little ahead of me. My heart beats too quickly, rattling in my ears. I take another drink of water, considering the small speech I just delivered. “How was that?”

“Pretty good. I think I love you,” he praises and laughs—like, really laughs. The sound, full and radiant, has me matching the energy with a grin.

Shrugging my shoulders, I reply, “Just a fan.” I act like his love comment won’t be running around in my brain for the rest of time. Like, remember when Brooks Pittman said he thought he loved me?

Brooks opens the menu and muses, “Well, I only know your name because of the hostess, so it looks like I have some catching up to do.”

I give him an out. “You don’t have to stay if you already had plans or whatever. It won’t be the first time I was disappointed by a date.”

“Believe me, this is a much better plan than having the bartender feed me disgusting drinks he’s trying out for the winter menu. And you can’t tell me you think I’m better at the three and then leave me hanging.”

Brooks is wearing a navy shirt—it's kind of odd to see him in non-Jags colors, but athletes don’t go around living in a team color palette. His muscles press against the fabric, ones I’ve seen on TV but never in person—never like this. His hair is dark under his backwards hat and he is the definition of a man crush Monday.

“Thoughts on the lobster wontons to start?”

Looks like we’re doing this.

I’m on a date with Brooks Pittman.

Chapter 3

Brooks

Therestaurantisemptybesides the staff cleaning up for the night. I knew it was late, but had no idea it wasthislate. Our laughs fill in the cracks between the sounds of dishes being stacked, chairs being scooted in, and employees finishing their shift.

I can’t stop staring at Lia. She’s unreal. It's cliché to say she’s unlike anyone I've ever met, but it’s the fucking truth. We were talking about basketball defensive sets and specific offensive plays; she asked questions that some of my teammates probably haven’t even wondered about. She’s smart, confident, and it’s such a turn on.

It’s surprising how she made me want to share. It’s not that I’m some sort of recluse, but there’s an internal brick wall I’ve built, reinforced, and sometimes restructured. Lately, people who cross that brick wall are few… even for a night. I’m not saying I want to tell her my deepest darkest secrets or anything, but the brick feels more pliable than it usually does.

Her eyes are a fierce shade of green, like fresh pine trees in the spring sun. I’m not sure I’ve ever met someone with blonde hair and green eyes. For some reason, it fits perfectly with what I know about her so far.

And her laugh. She laughs like she means it, kind of loud but in the best way. She doesn’t cover her mouth or try to stifle it. She gave me her number an hour into the date, and if that isn’t a good sign, I don’t know what is.

Lia recrosses her legs and one of her heels catches my eye. Black. Strappy.

“I can’t believe someone tried making you feel bad for wearing those. You look so fucking good,” I blurt out.

Her cheeks flush as she smiles through the compliment, and it warms my chest.

Pushing the button on the side of her phone, Lia’s eyes go wide. “It’s after midnight. I should get going. I’m teaching yoga tomorrow morning. Well, technically,thismorning.” She grabs her purse and holds it in her lap.

“Wait, I thought you work at a bakery?” I ask, making sure I have my details right.

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