Page 82 of Texting, Trouble & Touchdowns
“A drawer. For your stuff. And maybe a designated shelf in the fridge for whatever green sludge you drink.”
“Oh my God, I am not moving in with you.”
His grin deepens. “You have to and we should be doing that tomorrow according to my agent.”
And that’s the moment. The absurd, quiet, terrifying moment when I realize this is morphing into something else. A genuine friendship or . . . somewhere between the dog walks and the late-night video calls where we talk about everything and nothing—I started to want this. Want to talk to him. I gaze at the screen as if it holds answers I’m too afraid to seek.
“You should get some sleep,” he says gently.
“You too.”
“‘Night, Liv.”
“‘Night, Lucian.”
The call ends, but I don’t move.
I lie there, staring at the dark screen, with Sarah snoring beside me, and stare at the ceiling as if it will explain how Iended up here. How the running back next door became the one person I can’t imagine my life without.
And the scariest part?
I kind of like it.
Chapter Twenty-Five
[Photo of Sarah lying dramatically across the couch, one paw dangling off the cushion, eyes closed in eternal mourning.]
Letter from Sarah (insert British accent while reading):
Day . . . well, I never did get the hang of numbers, did I? Your scent’s all but vanished from the sofa cushions. I’ve sniffed every corner, even the suspicious bit behind the loo. Nothing.
I lie here. Abandoned. Betrayed. Chew toyless.
Did you ever love me, or was I just a furry prop in your social media stories?
No, no, I mustn’t spiral again.
Pull yourself together, Sarah. You’re a strong, independent Vizsla with separation anxiety.
But still.
Lucian: Did she seriously send me that weird email herself?
Olivia: I’m just a messenger.
Lucian: You’re not a good influence on my girl.
Olivia: I’m a great influence, and she’d like to have a letter from you—with a picture of course.
Photo of Lucian’shotel room.
Letter from Lucian (read to Sarah in the most Bostonian—and elegant accent you can muster . . . I’ll know if you didn’t, Liv.)
My dearest Lady Sarah,
I read your letter whilst crouched behind a tackling dummy.
War is cruel. The men are loud.
