Page 90 of Fall For Me
I freeze mid-stride.
Peyton’s gasp is audible. “Emma! Shhhh. The man already has a large enough ego.”
A grin spreads across my face, wide and goofy. I don’t look back. I shake my head and continue up the stairs, thinking that Emma and I will get along just fine.
In the bedroom, I strip off my suit and change into jeans and a light sweater. Then I pull out my letterman jacket—the blue-and-silver Bobcats one that Peyton banned from my wardrobe.
The one that turned her onto jocks.
I shrug it on, check my reflection, and head back downstairs.
Peyton is at the counter, using her ex’s fancy wine opener on a bottle of white.
“Hey.”
She turns. Her gaze drops to the jacket, and her eyes narrow into slits.
“Really?” she says flatly.
I spread my hands in a gesture of innocence. “What? It’s a football game.”
She looks ready to throw a kitchen knife at my head. I shouldn’t find that as attractive as I do.
“If you’re having a girls’ night,” I add, already backing toward the door, “you could invite Lila. She’s so mopey on Friday nights when everyone abandons her for”—I make air quotes—“stupid football.”
Peyton’s glare softens. “I’ll text her. She’s significantly less annoying than you.”
* * *
I regret suggesting Lila’s involvement about an hour later when I get a text from my best friend.
I’m sitting in the rafters at Harbor Field, hunched in a regular seat instead of the VIP box. I didn’t feel like facing my parents and explaining why Peyton isn’t with me, and I didn’t want to make small talk with the boosters and alumni donors when my mind is a thousand miles away.
Or, more accurately, about two miles away. At my house. With my wife.
The Bobcats are up by two touchdowns when my phone buzzes.
Lila
Thanks for the unexpected Halloween gift
I frown at the screen. What Halloween gift?
Another message pops into the chat.
Lila
Since no party was planned, we’re working with what we have at home. I’m dressing up your wife as a sexy kitten. We’ll be at the Moonshine as soon as that boring-ass game is over
I stare at the phone.
Sexy. Kitten.
The crowd erupts around me—we’ve scored—but the noise doesn’t drown out the pounding in my ears.
I need this game to be over. Fast.
The last quarter drags. Every play takes an eternity. Every timeout is an act of cruelty to torment me.
