Page 37 of Tight Spot

CHAPTER10

HAILEY

Tonight had been a whirlwind of surprise from the moment Dawson showed up at my store. It occurred to me that I should probably start looking into his career. It was impossible to miss the side-eyes we’d received on the walk to Margo’s—both my friend and the name of the bar—and her reaction pretty much sealed the deal.

It wasn’t like I was some moron who lived with their head buried in the sand, but when you grew up in a family where sports didn’t factor into our rec time or television viewing events, I was struggling to figure out why everyone made such a big deal of seeing an athlete in person.

Was it the millions? Was it the entertainment factor?

I wasn’t quite sure, but while we finished up the food Margo delivered, I tried to push past the unease of the fact it felt like everyone was watching us and vowed to learn a little bit more of his life without prying.

He didn’t owe me anything other than the promises we’d made to each other the other night and as our last glasses of wine were filled from the bottle he poured and our plates were cleaned, I’d spent well over an hour with the heat of his body warming me and the scent of his masculine cologne, or maybe it was pure him, making my head spin.

He was signing the bill, and I was nervously tapping my foot in the air, one leg thrown over my knee in a way to figure out what to suggest next.

A good night? A walk me back to my store? Or maybe…

In the end, Dawson decided by lifting one hip off the chair, tucking his wallet into his back pocket and holding out his hand. “Getting late, and I’ve got an early morning. Let me walk you to your car?”

I stared at his hand. Then up at his face. All that hair hanging at his shoulders and all that breadth of muscle.

I wasn’t the least bit tired.

Nor had I drunk too much.

“I usually walk to work.”

“Then let me take you home.”

Since I was now confidently knowing exactly where I wanted this night to go—with at least one of us starting to fulfill our roles, I easily agreed and slid my hand into his.

“All right.”

Dawson helped me off the stool, we waved goodbye to Margo and as we were walking out, I glanced back. Her phone was in her hand, and I had no doubt by the time I got home, my face would be on her Instagram page.

I tried not to let myself think about that. Fake dating Dawson could end up with a lot more attention for me than I usually preferred.

I also tried not to think about the fact he didn’t say much as we headed in the direction of my store, that he kept his hand clasped firmly with mine.

I also made no effort to pull my hand out of his hold. He was warm. Strong. And the way he held my hand so tightly I figured if I tugged on mine, I wasn’t going anywhere anyway.

He held the door open to a tricked-out, matte black Tahoe, shut it after I was in and buckled, and followed my simple, two-turn directions to get me to my home. An old bungalow with a shaded front yard from the magnolia tree out front, a wooden swinging bench at the edge of the front porch I’d had my dad come over and help me hang early this spring. I’d had visions of sitting on it with Darrick, leaning against his chest while we had a drink after a long day at work and catching up, reading outside on Saturday mornings before he went golfing.

It swayed gently with the breeze, reminding me of all of it. That sting I always felt when I saw it didn’t hurt quite so bad in the passenger seat of Dawson’s SUV.

“Cool place,” he murmured and cut the engine, and he barely spared me a glance before he went back to taking in the front porch. It wasn’t done, but I’d added a line of railing planters and had more on the steps leading up to it. In front of the window, I had a small bistro set, originally a rusted-out white metal I’d painted a bright yellow that now matched a yellow door. The front landscaping held bushes, but they were minimal. I’d cut most of them down and taken out a handful when I first moved in to keep the walkway clear to the door.

“Would you like to come in?”

Dawson pulled his eyes off my yellow, probably way too girly for him front door, and stole my breath with a look. “Yeah.”

It came out as a rumble, and I felt that rumble all the way to the tops of my thighs.

I waited until he opened his door, and then I hopped out and met him at the front.

“You always walk to and from work?” He scanned the street. Lots of streetlights, lots of front porch lights on. There’d never been a time I felt unsafe walking home, but that rumble in my thighs only grew deeper, warmer, while he checked everything out.

“Unless it’s raining or too cold, usually.” I headed up the steps and Dawson followed, still scanning the street as he did, head turned over his shoulder. “It’s a safe area.”

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