Page 19 of No Place Like Home
“The Cade Landry I remember never took no for an answer.”
He stumbled as Rosalyn elbowed him in the ribs, lighting his torso on fire, and he had to remind himself she hadn’t read his mind. She wasn’t talking about a kiss.
“Except, of course, when he realized he’d been beat for valedictorian.” She winked.
Rival days. Right. “I still think that poor, underpaid staff member made a tally error.”
“Underpaid staff?” Rosalyn snorted, eyes lighting as they neared Chug a Mug. “They used computers to compare our GPAs.”
He pretended to concede. “Well, there you go. You can’t trust machines these days.”
Rosalyn scoffed. “People aren’t much more reliable.” Then she pressed her lips together, as if she hadn’t meant for the words to escape.
“Touché.” He paused by the door of her car and studied her a moment, noting the angle of her cheekbones, the way her delicate nose dipped in the middle. The slight furrow between her professionally drawn brows. “I guess I didn’t think that through, did I?” He gave her a window to reveal more of what she meant, if she wanted.
He hoped she did.
But instead, she lifted her chin and smiled before she slid into the driver’s seat, clearly trying to cover the rare moment of vulnerability. “Always be prepared, Landry.”
“Hey, that’s easy. Prepared is my middle name.”
“Is your car still at Chug a Mug?”
He nodded.
“Hop in.” She gestured toward the passenger seat. “I can drive you.”
“It’s only a block.” But why was he protesting? Didn’t he want to go?
She insisted, so he walked around and slid in—just in time for her to tug that scrunchie from her tresses and release a wave of citrus-scented temptation through the interior.
Okay, maybe his name wasn’t Prepared, after all.
He closed his eyes against the scent, against her proximity. Against the wave of regret flooding his heart at not making a move when he’d had the chance years ago.
That night in Cambridge, after the Yale rival game. He’d run into her and her group of friends—ugh, and that awful Amber girl—at a sports pub, the first time he’d seen Rosalyn since graduation. She’d been wearing a flowing top in Harvard crimson, and skinny jeans paired with heels that made her legs go on forever and a day. She’d been laughing, until that one beef-head in a jersey had?—
“You okay?”
He opened his eyes, half startled to realize he wasn’t surrounded by face-painted fans and cheese fries. “Oh, yeah, of course. Long day.”
But what he really wanted to say was—do you wanna get out of here?
The question fairly begged to leave his lips—just like it had roughly nine years ago in the alley behind the Lazy Spoon.
But just like then, he swallowed it. Rosalyn hadn’t given him signals that anything had changed from their glory days of competing. That she thought any differently of him than she had then, the entitled mayor’s son who got bailed out. Now, though—she was back.
And maybe this time he could figure out how to say what he wanted.
Stay.
five
She hadn’t brought any of her performance leotards home. What would she wear in this circus?
Still in bed, the late morning sun peeking through the blinds in her childhood room, Rosalyn opened her go-to shopping app and started scrolling through the options. Not that the leo was top priority right now. But stressing over glittery fabric felt a lot better than allowing herself to replay last night’s walk and car ride with Cade.
Purple with feathers. She wrinkled her nose.Flick.
