Page 41 of Glitz & Goals

She chuckles as she comes over to kiss my forehead. “Other than the fact that I’m going to be saddle-sore tomorrow? I think I’m fine.”

I reach up to catch her wrist between loose fingers. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

“You did. In a good way. That was exactly what I needed.” She straightens up. “But I’ve got to go. I checked the Ring cameras at home, and the coast is clear. Everyone’s still at the Puck Drop.”

I wish she’d stay, but I’m not going to push my luck. “Do you want me to drive you back?”

“It’s a gated neighborhood. I’ll be fine. It’s only a couple of blocks.”

“It’s dark.”

“There are streetlights. Trust me, Grady, I grew up here. These are my stomping grounds. Plus I have an alarm on my keychain and pepper spray that can disarm a predator from twenty feet away.”

I can tell that I’m not going to win this round, so I reach for a pair of pajama pants and a plain tee. “Will you at least text me when you get home?”

“That, I can do.”

I follow her downstairs, feeling a bit too much like Blade for comfort. At the door, I give her one last kiss.

“I’ll see you soon,” she promises. “Oh, and Grady?”

I lean against the back of the sofa. “Yeah?”

“I was serious about the toys. That sounds hot as fuck.” She winks even as she opens the door and dips out.

Well, shit. Looks like I need to research some good toys, then.

Chapter Twelve

Vivian

Everyone should have a place where they feel perfectly content, where they can be their truest selves, where they can let their freak flag fly. Mine has been the same place since I was a kid, and although I know I’m going to leave it behind someday, I’m not ready to let it go just yet. In fact, I still consider it a work in progress.

Most people just think of it as Noah and Molly’s backyard, but I call it the Gnome Gloam.

The day after the team gets back from their away games, I get up early for the flea market. I learned the hard way that if you show up late, other people will have gotten all the good stuff. “Good stuff,” of course, is a relative term. Some people are still collecting Beanie Babies and baseball cards, dishware that matches the set their grandma handed down, old coins, or Hummel figurines. Me, I don’t care about any of that. I’m looking for the perfect addition to my favorite whimsical place on Earth.

I pass by table after table filled with VHS and well-loved children’s toys and vintage clothes until I see him. The one I’ve been looking for. I hurry over to the table and pick up a garden gnome as tall as my forearm. I’m guessing someone picked up this little guy in Florida, because his shirt is painted with a pattern of flamingos and palm trees against a pale blue background. He’s holding a bottle of sunscreen in one hand and a margarita in the other. His sunglasses cover most of his face, and his shorts are sliding down in the back to reveal his crack which is, of course, sunburned.

“Ugly little bugger, isn’t he?” the woman running the booth asks.

“Hideous,” I agree and hug him to my chest. “How much?”

* * *

By the time I get back with my spoils of war, including three gnomes and a pair of boots that just happened to fit perfectly, Dad and Viktor have already fired up the grill. Mom and her store manager slash family friend Mona are on the back deck. Mona has worked at The Last Chapter for about a million years, but she also freelances as an editor, and I’m pretty sure she makes all of her clients cry at least once. There’s no sign of her husband, Oliver, but it’s not unusual for him to be away at various conferences and events. He’s a big-time Shakespearean scholar, at least among people who are that flavor of academic nerd, and he moonlights as a poet, so he does a lot of visiting speaker gigs.

“Hey, Mona!” I wave to her as I walk by with my armload of purchases. “Are you sticking around for lunch?”

“Well, I’m sure not walking for a while.” She holds up her cocktail and grins, which earns a laugh. It’s not even eleven a.m. on a weekday, and she and Mom have already broken out the tequila. Bless them. I hope I have no fucks left to give either, when I’m their age.

“Join us!” Mom calls.

“Give me a sec to drop my crap off.” I take a few steps toward the door.

That’s when I hear the barking. It’s not all that odd to hear dogs barking in this neighborhood. Ranger and Delilah have a pair of crusty, geriatric lapdogs who escaped all the time before the one started to go blind, and Briggs has a husky-beagle mix who makes the most godawful noises when she gets worked up.This bark, however, is deep and low, and sounds familiar even though I can’t quite place it.

I lay down my gnomes on one of the picnic benches and circle back to the side gate. “Blade?” I call.

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