Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 88460 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 442(@200wpm)___ 354(@250wpm)___ 295(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88460 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 442(@200wpm)___ 354(@250wpm)___ 295(@300wpm)
I raise a brow, leaning across the table and brushing her fingers with mine. “Accountable, huh? Should I apologize or double down?”
Her laughter bubbles again, filling the kitchen. “Oh, I think we both know you’d double down.”
“Guilty,” I admit. “But for now, breakfast and recovery.” I tilt my head. “After that? Who knows?”
She narrows her eyes, playful suspicion lacing her tone. “You planning on ruining me again?”
“Only if you ask nicely,” I tease, then take a bite of my omelet like I didn’t drop that line.
Her cheeks flush, but she doesn’t shy away. “I’ll think about it,” she says, her gaze dropping to her plate before flicking back up to mine. “In the meantime, what’s your day look like?”
I shrug, pretending to think. “No team building, no meetings. I could do whatever I want.” Although I should probably go get some more logrolling in—the last thing I want to do is embarrass myself in front of the crowd.
Whatever. I’ll worry about that later.
“And what do you want?” She arches a brow, already knowing she’s the focus of that answer.
“You,” I say simply.
I lean back in my chair, watching her take another bite of her food. The way she’s so comfortable, sitting across from me in her blanket, with no makeup, hair still messy, has me wondering why this feels so easy.
Natural.
Like we’ve done this a hundred times before.
She shifts the focus. “So, what’s next for you after this team retreat?”
I finish my toast, brushing off my hands. “We head right back to work. It’s going to be a grind.”
“And after that? What does offseason look like?”
“Usually pretty quiet. I do some traveling, visit family—maybe work on endorsements,” I explain, watching her reaction carefully. “Why? Planning to pencil me in your calendar?”
I like the direction this is going.
Lucy gives her head a tiny shake. “Just curious what your world looks like beyond football.”
Oddly enough, I’m disappointed in that answer. It would have been cooler if she’d been like I totally want to spend time with you in Arizona! Or wherever.
I’m not picky—I could chill with her in town a weekend or two.
“My life outside of football . . .” My voice trails off as I consider this. “Uh. Staying in shape. I like keeping my hands busy. Woodworking, sketching, trying new recipes in the kitchen.”
Her eyebrows lift. “You actually enjoy cooking?”
“Yeah. But it’s not like I’m a pro.” Not even close. “I like experimenting. My specialty right now is homemade pizza dough. I’ve mastered the crust—crispy on the outside, chewy on the inside.”
“Okay, now I’m impressed.”
“I’ll make you some,” I offer, the words slipping out before I realize I’m making future plans. “If I survive this lumberjack thing.”
Lucy’s smile softens, and I feel something shift again. More than the easy conversation—this is comfort. The kind that sneaks up on you before you can protect yourself from it.
“I’ll hold you to that,” she says.
Interesting. “Is this you admitting you like having me around?”
A slow nod. “Maybe.”
Her maybe hangs between us, soft but heavy enough to knock me off balance. I grip my fork, leaning toward her as I watch her, trying to read the layers beneath that answer.
“Careful, Lucy,” I say, my voice low, teasing. “Keep saying shit like that, and I might show up uninvited.”
She arches a brow. “Uninvited, huh? Just make sure you’re not climbing up the lattice and knocking on my window in the middle of the night.”
I make a mental note of that for future reference.
Lucy sets her mug down and rests her elbows on the table. “So, if you weren’t doing the lumberjack thing, what would you want to do instead?”
Easy. “I’d take you somewhere,” I answer without hesitating.
“Where?”
“Someplace chill,” I continue. “We’d hit a local farmers’ market in the morning, grab coffee, and then drive with the windows down. No plans.”
“Well, dang,” Lucy says. “That sounds kind of perfect.”
For a second, I wonder if I’m imagining the shift in her expression. It’s like we’ve skipped past the “what if” and fallen straight into “when.”
“Yeah. It’s too bad I’ll be swinging an axe.” And trying not to kill myself.
Lucy laughs softly, the sound warming the space between us. “You’ve got this. Think of it as a workout. You love those, right?”
Not necessarily. But it comes with the territory and is a necessary evil.
I run a hand through my hair. “There’s a difference between lifting weights and pulling a Paul Bunyan.”
“You’re not giving yourself enough credit.” She rests her chin on her hand, meeting my eyes. “You’re built for this.”
The way she says it makes my pulse hitch for a second. Compliments from Lucy hit different. She’s not trying to inflate my ego—she’s not full of shit.
I could sit here all day trading lines with her, but the trash bag waiting by the door is starting to bug me, like a reminder that even perfect mornings have mundane tasks.