Page 36 of Romancing My Grumpy Goalie

“Speaking of businesses, how is yours going?” I ask.

“Not great,” she admits.

“Did you try the half-off sale?”

“I did, actually. But I ran paid ads for it, and I only lost money. No one came to the shop for the sale outside of a few of my regulars.”

“You have to know the right ads to run.”

“How do you know so much about this?” she asks.

“My grandmother owns a chain of beach stores in North Carolina, and I helped her run them when I was younger. I started out at the register and slowly worked my way up until soccer took over.”

I pull up to a stoplight as we head to the interstate.

Her eyes go wide. “Is that why you were rearranging my store like that?”

I keep a straight face. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Can’t help yourself?” she teases.

Her teasing me like that does funny things to my insides and makes me want to take her in my arms and kiss her for real this time. It’s not the first time I’ve pictured such a thing in the past few days.

“Not when I’m around you.”

“You know,” she says in a soft voice. “You used to infuriate me, but you’ve grown on me.”

My heart does this strange, traitorous lurch. “I must be doing something wrong,” I deadpan, my voice low.

She laughs. “No, I’m serious.” Her smile fades a little. “Speaking of being serious, I have a question for you.”

“Yeah?”

Her gaze collides with mine, and I go warm all over. Before speaking, she looks away like the contact is too much. “Why do you keep playing soccer when your knee hurts so much?” The tenderness in her voice sparks something in my chest.

I stare straight ahead, jaw tightening. That question hits a little too close.

“I’ve worked my whole life to get to a certain level. I want to get back to that point,” I say.

Her voice is tender. “And it’s not going well?”

I turn my focus back on the road. “Not lately.”

She shifts in her seat, her knees brushing mine. Then slowly she reaches for the hand I’ve left resting on the console. Her fingers slide between mine, thumb brushing across my skin like she’s memorizing me.

“Kind of like me with my shop,” she says, voice barely above a whisper.

I don’t say anything. I just hold her hand tighter as the engine rumbles. If I weren’t driving, I’d want to close my eyes and savor her touch.

By the time we arrive at my home, my knee is throbbing. I may have overdone it tonight. I’ll find out in physical therapy tomorrow.

“Welcome to my home, sweet home,” I say, leading her to the threshold like a newlywed.

I unlock the door and let her in. “The food should be here soon.”

“Good. I’m starving.”

So am I. And not in the way she means, because her pink lipstick is begging to be . . . removed.

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