Page 87 of Texting, Trouble & Touchdowns
“Yes?”
“If you say one more word, I will personally drive to training camp and stab you with a spork.”
He grins. “Hot, but you’ll have to fly to Colorado for that.”
I drop into a chair, exhaling like I’ve just finished a marathon. Sarah trots back in—box still perched on her head like she’s won something—and flops against my shin with the sort of sigh that speaks volumes: “I’ve had a day, mate.”
“Your dog is broken,” I mutter.
“She’s thriving,” Lucian says proudly. “So are you.”
“I’m wearing a bra I found in the glove compartment and socks that don’t match.”
“I love a woman in survival mode.”
I glance at him. Despite everything- the stress, the exhaustion, the fucking box parade—something inside me tugs. Because he’s here, laughing, watching me unravel as if it’s his favorite sport. And for some reason, I’m not yelling. I’m not telling him to back off.
I’m smiling.
Barely. But still.
“You’re such a menace,” I say.
“And somehow, you still enjoy talking to me,” he says in a low voice, smug as hell, “I mean, you answered my call.”
“I’m starting to regret it.”
“You’re not.”
I’m not.
Not even a little.
And that’s a problem I don’t have time to unpack—especially not when Sarah launches herself into my lap like a missile of need and judgment, all forty-something pounds of gangly limbs and guilt-ridden sighs.
I groan. “Get off me, you emotionally manipulative monster.”
Lucian’s laughter crackles through the speaker, low and entirely too amused. Despite myself, I laugh too. After all, he finds this entertaining. He’s probably lounging somewhere serene, drinking an overpriced protein shake while I’m buried under bubble wrap and dog fur.
Yeah. This is a fucking disaster.
He watches me struggle—bubble wrap crackling, Sarah unwilling to be anything less than a stage-five clinger—and finally says, “You need help.”
“Oh, now you offer help,” I snap, yanking the box off Sarah’s head, only to get a full-faced, peanut-breath thank-you kiss. “Where was this energy when she brought three different sticks into the house and tried to hide them in my purse?”
“I was conditioning,” he replies, feigning innocence and smugness. “Core strength. Abs. Glutes. The usual. Also, I’m a few states away.”
I narrow my eyes. “You know what’s better than abs?”
“Please don’t say emotional maturity.”
“Emotional maturity.”
He groans. “God, you’re so predictable.”
“I’m practical,” I shoot back.
“You’re adorable,” he says too casually. The words slide into my ears before I can block them, and suddenly my pulse forgets how to behave.
