Page 45 of Falling Offsides

He shrugs, moving his stare back to his half-eaten slice.

I raise a brow. “So you just had the perfect pound cake recipe lying around?”

His mouth twitches like he’s fighting a smile. “My mom texted it to me.”

“Wait.” I lean forward, grinning now. “You got your mom involved in your cake scheme?”

“It’s not a scheme.”

“It feels like a scheme.”

“I was being thoughtful.”

“Oh, sothoughtfully scheming.”

He sighs but finally glances back at me, and the look in his eyes is softer than I expect. “It’s my favorite. My granny used to bake it every morning when me and my siblings visited her in Barbados as children.”

Something about the way he says it makes me quiet down. My ribs squeeze tight around my lungs when he looks past me to the ocean in the background. Nostalgia gleams in his green gaze—fond and bright.

“My granny would have it on the table at the exact time that we sat down,” he continues, his voice distant, threaded with something that sounds a lot like homesickness. “Warm. Crumbly. She’d serve it with mango or banana salad and yogurt. We’d eat it out on the porch, hiding away from the hot sun.”

I blink because I’ve never been close to my grandparents. Mom’s parents are super conservative and keep themselves to their inner circle from church, and after my parents divorced, I didn’t see my paternal grandparents much.

“That sounds… really lovely.”

He nods slowly. “It was.”

His eyes flick back to mine, a little guarded now. Like maybe he’s said too much. So I lighten it. Just a touch.

“Well,” I say, slicing another bite off with my fork, “your granny would be proud. This is amazing.”

He watches me take another bite. The satisfaction when I hum around my fork brightens every inch of his face. It occurs to me that I like this too—bringing out his smile, soaking in his contentment.

I devour every last crumb until there isn’t so much as a smudge on my plate.

“You’ve got cake on your lip,” he says when I look up.

Before I can wipe it off, he reaches across the table. His thumb brushes the corner of my mouth. Slow. Deliberate.

I freeze.

As though he didn’t realize what he was doing, so does he.

There’s a whole air ofoh shitwith a dash ofholy fuckwhere neither of us moves.

Not until Samson barks—sharp and demanding from where he’s plopped himself under the table.

The moment shatters.Thankfully, I think as I sit back quickly, breath caught in my throat.

Auguste clears his, pushing to his feet and collecting our plates and empty coffee cups. “Let me clear this up.”

“I don’t think so.” I snatch the cups off the stack of plates he’s holding and head inside. “You baked the cake and brought the coffee, it’s only fair I clean the dishes.”

“You have a dishwasher.”

“Exactly.” I wink over my shoulder, catching him flagrantly checking me out.

Oh boy, my whole body heats from his attention. My heart pounds into my ribs.

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