Page 36 of The Dating Charade

That was interesting. He’d never noticed her wearing so much mascara. She blinked, her green eyes softer than he’d ever observed before. He wondered momentarily if there was something different about her eyebrows. Less . . . hairy.

Her smile reached her eyes. “If you want, we can put it together right now. I’m pretty handy with a manual.”

Just then TJ spit up, for the fifth time that day, on his shirt. “I would. I really would. But I’m about to be late as is.”

He handed TJ over, now very aware of how important it was not to disappoint the woman who had agreed on a whim to watch the kids. “But that would be great when I get back. TJ is going to love it. Aren’t you, buddy?”

“And where are you going again?” she began just as he spoke loudly over her to the kids.

“Guys? Remember Sarah? She’s going to hang out with you for a little while.”

He grabbed the T-shirt towel and began swiping at his shirt.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a shift in the twins’ postures that made him look up. They wore that same forlorn, don’t-leave-us look Sarah also seemed to be wearing. It made him uneasy. “And you can show her all the things you can do with ice cubes. Won’t that be fun?”

Dakota dropped her sandwich.

Jett dropped the T-shirt on the counter, sensing the beginning of the battle. “And you can jump on Uncle Jett’s bed as much as you want.”

Both of the twins hopped down from their chairs and headed toward him.

“And Sunny’s! He has a great big giant king bed! Wake him up and go crazy.”

The kids kept coming.

Backing up, Jett bumped into the wall, his hand fiddling for the fridge. He opened it quickly. “See this?”

They stopped just before clutching his legs.

“Ice cream! Ice cream for everyone!”

He was yelling so loud that Sarah’s eyes widened. When the twins started jumping with him in enthusiasm, however, her lips upturned.

It wasn’t too hard to get out the door after that.

With lucky green lights and a sprint from the parking lot, Jett managed the easygoing stroll into the gym a mere four minutes past six. He stripped off his jacket. Cassie waited at the three-point line—void of pine needles—of the old gym, a ball in her hands, her chestnut hair pulled back into a playful ponytail. She was just as beautiful as the day she’d stood on the same court fifteen years ago.

“Why, you look stunning, Miss Everson.”

Cassie laughed, looking down at her athletic pants and T-shirt. “Man, your bar must be really low. And anyway, where’s all the trash talk you’ve been throwing down the past few days? Don’t tell me you’re going soft now when it counts.”

She bounced the ball toward him and he caught it with both hands.

“Oh, no. I’m not backing down. I just think it’s time we let actions speak for themselves.” He dribbled the ball to the three-point line, positioned himself, and threw it. The ball swished with such perfection through the net he could hear the angels singing.

Or rather, that’s what would’ve happened if he’d been in charge of the moment. In reality the ball soared through the air, missed the backboard completely, and slammed into one of the hanging blue mats on the back wall.

Her laugh wasn’t one of those sweet, jingly types that came off like a polite wind chime. No, as he jogged after the ball, she cackled at megaphone volume.

“I just need a warm-up,” he called back, searching for the ball now hidden among the bleachers. “You’ll be sorry soon enough.”

“You keep telling yourself that,” she said between laughs.

Already, the night was perfect.

Old metal halide lighting dangled from the forty-foot ceilings. Yellow walkways and blue bleachers covered the gymnasium where echoes of old memories lingered: the feel of the ball on his fingertips, the cheers in the stands, the shouting of his old coach.

The smell of spit-up on his chest.