Page 69 of Hometown Touchdown
My breath catches for a beat. “The ferns at the falls?”
She nods. “I was homesick. It was raining like it always did, and I passed this tattoo shop on my way to work. Walked in without thinking. The guy asked what I wanted, and I just…blurted it out. A fern leaf. Something simple. Something to remind me of the falls.”
“It’s perfect,” I say quietly.
She tugs her shirt back down and smiles, then nudges me with her foot. “Okay, your turn. Tell me something about you. Something I wouldn’t guess.”
I rub the back of my neck, a little thrown by the way she’s looking at me—like she really wants to know. Like it matters.
“Alright,” I say. “You remember how I used to hate reading?”
She snorts. “Yes, I remember quite a bit of complaining during British Lit.”
I grin. “Yeah, well. That changed.”
She raises a brow.
“I read now. A lot. Mostly late at night. Helps me relax.”
She leans forward, surprised. “What kind of books?”
“Mostly fiction. Some nonfiction.” I shrug. “I don’t talk about it. Just something I started doing after I left the league. Got me through some hard nights.”
Brynn’s quiet for a second, then her voice softens. “That’s…actually really hot.”
I laugh. “Only you would think a guy with a Kindle addiction is sexy.”
“I’m serious. That’s a solid green flag, Coach.”
We fall into a rhythm after that, teasing and talking, our shoulders brushing now and then. Empty plates and wine glasses pushed to the side. It feels natural. Like no time’s passed at all.
Brynn shifts beside me, her hand sliding over my stomach, fingers drawing idle, looping patterns that send warmth rippling through my chest. Her head rests against my shoulder, and I swear I could sit here forever.
But then Priscilla lets out a sleepy grunt from the other side of the room, and I remember the garlic bread crumbs still on the plate and the fact that she’s both sneaky and shameless.
“I should clean this up before the dog gets ideas,” I murmur.
Brynn laughs softly against my shirt. “Probably a good call. She already claimed my spot on the couch when I wasn’t looking.”
“She’s not used to another woman in the house,” I say, but I’m smiling as I push up to my feet.
We work together without saying much, moving through the easy rhythm of gathering plates and wine glasses, folding up the quilt we used as our makeshift picnic blanket. I catch her humming under her breath as she rinses the dishes, and something in my chest tightens.
This—her in my kitchen, wine-drowsy and glowing—is a vision I didn’t realize I’d been holding onto for years.
I blow out the last of the candles, watching the smoke curl up toward the ceiling. The room instantly feels cooler, quieter. When I turn back, Brynn’s leaning against the counter, arms crossed, looking at me with that half-smile she wears when she’s about to say something that might wreck me a little.
“You sure know how to ruin a woman,” she says.
I raise a brow. “Ruin, huh?”
“Yeah.” She pushes off the counter, padding toward me. “Dinner. Candles. Wine. Folded blanket. It’s dangerous, Dalton. You make it really hard to walk away at the end of the night.”
My hand finds her waist, tugging her just a little closer. “Then don’t.”
Her breath catches. Just for a second. But I feel it.
“You’re gonna make it hard to leave tomorrow,” she whispers.
