Page 84 of Spotlight
“Are you taking a picture of me?” she asks.
“No, but that’s a good idea.” When I’m done with my original task, I snap a photo of her too.
Her phone pings, and she reaches for it with a questioning glance.
“What is this?” she asks, then reads my text out loud, “Coffee should have cream and sugar.”
“It should,” I say. She ordered black coffee today and I still can’t believe anyone willingly drinks it without any cream or sugar.
“And you texted me that because?”
“I was going to write you a note, but my handwriting sucks.”
Her gaze narrows.
“Like your grandfather does. Every day at…” I look at the time, “6:59 I’m going to text you my love letter.”
“You can’t steal my grandpa’s sweet gesture!”
“It’s so good though.” I tug her back to me by our joined hands.
I capture her laughter as I slant my mouth over hers. An hour wasn’t enough. I wish I could go back to her place, but JT is having the team over to watch hockey, and I feel like I should take every opportunity I get to know the guys, even if most of them are still not acting that warm toward me.
She groans and pulls away. “I have to go.”
“All right. All right.” I wrap my arms around her and give her one last hug. “P.S. Your butt looks really good in leggings.”
She’s wearing them again tonight and goddamn.
“I do love a postscript.”
“Good to know.” I bury my head in the crook of her neck. It feels physically impossible to let her go. I breathe her in and then scrape my teeth over her collarbone.
“P.S.S. It didn’t matter if the school moms were checking me out or not. Everyone there knew I only had eyes for you.”
Her cheekbones take on a pinkish tint as she smiles shyly. “I gotta go, Hotshot.”
“Okay.” This time I finally let her go.
She takes two steps backward smiling at me and then turns and crosses the street to the studio.
* * *
The following day, I’m leaving the stadium after a long practice when my dad calls to say he’s in town. I head straight to the bar to meet him.
He stands and smiles as I approach him.
“You look good,” he says, embracing me. “Did you grow another inch?”
“I don’t think so,” I say, taking a seat on a barstool next to his. “I think your memory is failing you, Pops.”
Grinning, he waves over the bartender for another beer, and I order a Coke.
“When did you get back?” I ask him once we both have drinks in front of us.
He gives his head a shake as he gets a pensive expression on his face. “I’m not sure. Two or three weeks ago.”
“Weeks?” That catches me by surprise.
