Page 43 of The Wild Card
Molly
It’s a gorgeous day,and the only way I could enjoy the walk more is if I was holding Collin’s hand.
A silly thought, since we’re not together. I’m going to have to keep reminding myself of that fact because a very stubborn part of me doesn’t seem to want to let it sink in.
Not together,Molly.Not. Together.
“How are those shoes working for you?” Collin asks, smirking down at my feet.
I couldn’t bear the thought of putting my cowboy boots back on, so Collin offered me a pair of flip flops. They’re at least five sizes too big, and I’m struggling not to trip over them, but my blistered feet are grateful.
“Better than the boots.”
I want to thank Collin again for taking care of my feet—and of me—last night, but the words dry up in my mouth. I’d almost rather not acknowledge my behavior. Talk about total humiliation. This man has officially seen me at my worst.
And he still hasn’t run away.
Yet.
He holds the door open for me. “After you, Molly-girl.”
I brush past Collin, and it’s silly the way I take a deep inhale to catch his scent. I’m acting like some kind of feral werewolf, trying to memorize the way he smells.
For the record, the way Collin smells reminds me of walking into the store in Austin where I bought my cowboy boots. Leather, warm and comforting, but in Collin’s case, mixed with something spicy and masculine. Of course, even his scent is irresistible. My inner werewolf gives a little howl of approval.
You’re not together, Molly.
“You okay?” Collin asks, stepping close to where I’ve stopped just inside the busy diner. “You’re making a face like something grossed you out.”
Hardly. “I’m fine.”
“You’ll be better once we get some food in you. Morning, Nan!” Collin waves at an older woman balancing plates along her arms. She walks by with a smile, and I wonder if Nan is her real name, maybe short for Nancy, or if it’s because she has that whole grandmother thing going on.
“Good morning! Your usual table is open,” she says, tilting her head toward an empty booth near the back. Every other table and most of the seats at the counter are filled.
Though a few people wave and smile or call out greetings to Collin, only one group actually stops us on our way back to the table. It’s three older men, two with dark skin and one with sun-speckled white, all three with gray hair.
“This is Molly,” Collin says, and though he doesn’t give me the girlfriend title, I like not being introduced in relation to my brother for once. “Molly, meet Bob, Bob, and Bob. Otherwise known as the Bobs.”
Is he … kidding? Or is that some kind of acronym for something? Some kind of small-town private joke?
The men gloss over his introduction and offer me quick but pleasant greetings. I guess he isn’t kidding.
“Do you plan to hit up any of spring training?” one of the Bobs asks Collin. “They could use an extra set of eyes on those boys. Not sure about the team next year. We’ll be losing a couple of good seniors.”
Are these older men talking with such seriousness about … high school football? I’m guessing they are.
“I thought Pat was still helping coach,” Collin says, scratching his jaw.
“He is,” a different Bob says. “But they’d never turn away another Graham.”
“And you’ve got the training experience considering your fancy gym and all.”
Collin looks suddenly embarrassed. “Oh, I really don’t think?—”
“Plus, you played football longer than Pat,” the first Bob says. “You’d be an asset. The boys would love to have you. What do you say?”
Rather than answer, Collin turns to me, his eyes communicating something I don’t quite understand before he hooks an arm around my waist, pulling me close.
