Page 81 of Texting, Trouble & Touchdowns
I narrow my eyes. “I don’t even know what this is anymore.”
Lucian shrugs. “Crawford charm. We train young.”
“Explains so much,” I mutter.
The silence that follows isn’t awkward. It’s warm, somehow—easy. The kind that sneaks in and settles between two people who’ve spent more nights talking than they’d like to admit. He’s still watching me—not Sarah now—and there’s something different in his expression. Less teasing. More . . . I prefer not to think about that right now. Feelings are not part of my vocabulary—or my state of mind.
“You really look tired,” he says softly.
I snort. “Great way to make me feel amazing.”
“I didn’t mean it like that,” he murmurs, his voice a bit rougher now. His gaze drifts across the screen as if he’s searching for hidden bruises I didn’t mean to reveal. “Long day?”
“Just the usual,” I say, brushing my hair and immediately regretting it when my fingers get caught in a knot that could qualify for maritime regulation. “The clinic’s coming along—sort of. Mike’s crew installed cabinets I didn’t order, so that was a whole thing. The shelter had a three-dog standoff over a single chew toy. And Sarah launched a hunger strike when I swapped her treats for the ones with actual nutritional value. She acted like I replaced her liver pâté with sandpaper.”
Lucian chuckles, that low, lazy kind that slides under my skin like warm water. “You need a vacation.”
“From what? I just moved in here.”
“Sure, but you didn’t get off to a great start.” His grin is mischievous. “Join me at training camp. I’ll sneak you in as amassage therapist. Just say the word, and I’ll make you a fake ID and all that.”
I narrow my eyes. “You want me to rub down a bunch of sweaty football players?”
“Not a lot.” He leans forward slightly. “Just one. Me. And I’m extremely open to inappropriate therapist-patient boundary violations.”
I roll my eyes, but my mouth betrays me with a smile. A real one, soft and traitorous. “You’re a menace.”
“And you’re glowing,” he says, so casually it makes my stomach dip. “Is it me? Is it the terrible lighting in your room? Or have you finally accepted that you like talking to me?”
“I tolerate you,” I shoot back.
“That’s practically a love confession coming from you.”
He’s grinning as if he believes he has some kind of leverage over me. Maybe he kind of does, but I’m fighting hard not to let him in. Sure, we get along, and I know that because we slip into this rhythm so easily now, as if we were always meant to be bantering and sharing late-night texts.
And then, just like that, his smile fades a little. His voice drops. “I’m serious, Liv. You’re doing a lot.” This, though, is something else.
This is no Lucian Crawford trying to flirt his way into my panties, nope. Something about the way he says it makes my throat tighten. There’s no teasing in his tone now. No game. Just concern. Real, honest concern from a man who shouldn’t care this much. Not about his pup sitter and neighbor.
“You okay?”
I open my mouth.
Close it.
Because how do you answer that when you’re so accustomed to brushing it off with a joke? When no one genuinely asks you and waits for the real answer?
“I’m . . . managing,” I say eventually, my voice quieter than before. “Everything’s just sort of in limbo. The clinic’s still under construction. The house is—well, a drywall-scented disaster. I’m sleeping with your dog, and I may or may not be turning into the kind of woman who has full conversations with her houseplants just to feel something.”
Lucian’s gaze softens, and God help me, it does something to me.
“So, what you’re saying,” he says slowly, “is that you’re two days away from moving in, eating all my snacks, and stealing my shirts.”
My lips twitch. “Three days, tops.”
He tilts his head. “You know, if you want to make this official, I can clear out a drawer.”
I blink. “What?”
