Page 93 of Hometown Touchdown
Knock knock knock.
We both freeze. My fingers are still inside her, her body tense beneath mine. The knock comes again—louder this time.
“Oh my God,” she hisses, removing my hand, clutching at the sheet and yanking it around herself like she’s preparing for war. “Who is that?”
“I don’t know!” I whisper-shout, already backing away like I’ve been caught committing a felony. “Could be a tenant. Could be Cam. Could be Ty.”
“Could be yourmom!’”
We lock eyes—shared panic, pure terror.
She bolts from the kitchen, sheet flying behind her like a cape, disappearing into the laundry room at Olympic speed. I scramble to find a pair of sweats in the dryer, yanking them on—no underwear, great. I grab a T-shirt and kiss her forehead before closing the door.
Another knock. My soul leaves my body. I walk to the front door, fueled by adrenaline and panic. Priscilla follows behind me.
I make it to the door, dragging a hand through my hair, checking behind me for any sign of Brynn, hoping to God I don’t still smell like sex.
I swing the door open and there stands my mother. Queen of Unannounced Visits and Emotional Ambushes.
She’s holding a Tupperware container, purse slung over her shoulder, and wearing that wide, casual smile that means she’s about to ruin my morning.
“Hi, honey,” she says. “I thought I’d drop off those muffins you like so you eat something other than protein bars all weekend.”
I blink. “Hi, Mom.”
Then I do the only thing I can. I open the door wider, block the hallway with my body, and pray she doesn’t notice the fact that I’m sweating, and very much hiding something—or someone.
Chapter forty-seven
Brynn
I’mcrouchedinthelaundry room—completely naked under a barely-secured sheet, heart pounding like I’m in a hostage situation.
Correction: Iamin a hostage situation. The hostage is me. The captor? His mother. The crime? Getting finger banged on a kitchen island and moaning loud enough to wake the town.
One minute I’m riding the wave of sexual bliss, still tasting blueberries on my lips and Knox’s voice in my ear telling me how good I feel. The next? A knock at the front door, and pure chaos.
I barely had time to grab the sheet before diving into the laundry room, ducking between a detergent bottle and a basket of clean towels like I’m a streaker in a high-stakes spy movie.
From here, I can hear everything.
Knox opens the front door and immediately tries to shut it again, only partially succeeding.
“Hi, honey,” she says. “I thought I’d drop off those muffins you like so you eat something other than protein bars all weekend.”
“Hi, Mom. That’s great. That’s…really great,” Knox says, voice tight, panicked. “You really didn’t have to.”
I can practically feel him sweating through the drywall.
“I’ll just pop in real quick,” she chirps.
“NO! I mean you really don’t need to. I’ve got a situation happening.”
“Oh?” she says, amused.
“Yeah. Um, a tenant has a water situation. Very wet. Everything drenched.”
I slap a hand over my mouth to keep from laughing.
