Page 2 of Texting, Trouble & Touchdowns
“That would be the one.” His grin widens, and—oh no. It’s the smirk of someone who knows exactly what he’s doing and can already tell I’m at least somewhat interested. Which I’m definitely not.
He tilts his head, looking past me. “Looks like she likes your place. Congrats. You’ve been chosen.”
I turn. The dog has flopped onto my kitchen floor, sprawled out dramatically like a queen claiming her throne.
Aspen, who has been alarmingly silent throughout this interaction, finally regains the ability to articulate words.
“So, uh.” She glances at me, then at the guy, then back to me.So. Fucking. Hot,she mouths before clearing her throat and feigning casual interest. “I’m Aspen. This is Olivia. You live around here?”
“No,” I say immediately. “Don’t make friends with strangers.”
“I’m not a stranger,” Mr. Hot Abs replies smoothly. “I’m your next-door neighbor,Olivia.”
My name slips from his tongue like a tease, as if he’s already decided we’re going to be on a first-name basis.
I cross my arms. “Your dog broke into my house.”
“Technically,” he counters, his eyes glinting with something dangerously close to amusement, “you left your door open. So, really, she just . . . walked in. Uninvited, sure. But can you blame her? It’s hot as fuck out.”
I narrow my eyes. “Are you saying it’s my fault your dog trespassed?”
“I’m saying,” he states, flashing another overly perfect grin, “perhaps you should take it as a compliment. Sarah doesn’t trust just anyone.”
I glance back at the so-called escape artist, who is currently lounging in my kitchen as if she has lived here her whole life. Her tail wags.
I exhale. “Sarah?” Seriously, who names their dog Sarah? It’s a too-person-like name. I get Sadie, Luna—it’s the most popular dog name in my other practice—maybe even Penny. Sarah . . . it’s odd. He’s strange, even when he’s hot. Too hot.
He nods. “Yes, Sarah. My Vizsla. Escape artist. Professional napper. Stealer of hearts.”
My gaze drifts back to him. The sweat. The grin. The way his voice lingers just enough to make it feel intentional.
I fold my arms. “And you are?”
“Lucian,” he says, offering his hand like we’re in some formal business exchange. I don’t take it. His smirk deepens like he enjoys my resistance. “Lucian Crawford.”
Crawford. The last name tugs at something in the back of my mind, like a word stuck on the tip of my tongue. I shake his hand. “I’m Olivia.”
Aspen squints at him, head tilting in curiosity. “Lucian Crawford?” She taps her chin. “You look familiar. Have we met before?”
He shrugs. “Maybe?” It’s a very trying-to-look-cool yet arrogant shrug as if he expects her—or me—to fall at his feet and say something like, “It’s you. I never thought this moment would ever come.” In his dreams.
Aspen taps her chin, deep in thought. Maybe, just maybe, she does know him. She believes she knows everything and everyone since she travels around the world, learning about history, life,and... she’s some kind of filmmaker who has won awards for her documentaries. Yet, I still don’t fully understand what she actually does for a living.
And then, like a lightbulb moment, she gasps, grabbing my arm with the strength of a woman about to deliver the biggest revelation of the century.
“Oh my God,” she singsongs. “You’re Luc Crawford.”
His grin stretches wider, like this is the reaction he’s used to getting. Like he’s some big deal, and my sister is about to drool all over him.
“You’re one of Leif’s younger brothers,” Aspen announces. “You look different. Did you get a haircut or something?”
And just like that, I watch his ego deflate in real time.
A laugh bursts out of me before I can stop it.
“Umm, yeah, that’d be me.” He clears his throat, his bravado slipping slightly. “So . . . I take it you’re a hockey fan, then?”
I scrunch my nose. “What does hockey have to do with anything?”
