Page 73 of Hometown Halftime

The silence that follows feels thick, and the only sound I hear is her quick breaths. Then Kinsey tilts her chin up.

I step closer and bend to place all my supplies on the floor next to us. My hand settles gently against her jaw. Lowering my head, I place a long, slow kiss on her lips. She sighs as I take my time and fuck, that sound will replay in my mind until morning.

Her breath shudders against my mouth as she leans into it, fingers brushing lightly against my wrist. The kiss lingers, unhurried, until I can feel my pulse pounding through my veins. I make myself pull back before I lose the ability to stop.

Kinsey’s lips are parted, her eyes unfocused in a way that nearly wrecks me. I swallow hard.

“Good night, Kinsey.”

Her chest rises with a shaky breath. “Good night, Riley.”

I pick up my things and head down the stairs to my very lonely couch.

Chapter thirty-one

Kinsey

I wake slowly, groggy and disoriented, tangled in soft sheets that smell like sandalwood and bergamot. My brain associates the scent with broad shoulders, brown eyes behind glasses, and hands that protected me while my apartment literally collapsed around us. Before I realize what I’m doing, I press my face deeper into the pillow and inhale again. Then my eyes snap open.

Oh my God. I’m sniffing his pillow.

Horror crawls through me before another inhale happens against my will, a clear demonstration that I’ve lost all dignity. The room around me is quiet, with soft morning light filtering through the curtains. I roll to my back and for a moment I just lie there, staring at the ceiling while reality slowly settles over me.

Last night I was getting ready for a date and now I’m waking up in Riley’s bed while he sleeps on the couch because he’s incapable of being anything except thoughtful and considerate twenty-four hours a day. It should be illegal for one man to have this many attractive qualities. The glasses alone are already a problem. Add emotional intelligence and basic domestic competence, and I’m practically fighting for my life.

I glance around the room. Riley’s room is clean. There’s a folded hoodie tossed over the desk chair, textbooks stacked neatly beside the bed, and a framed picture of Riley standing between his younger siblings. His smile in the photo is huge and genuine, one arm slung around his brother while his little sister beams up at him.

The way he loves his family makes my damn heart stutter.

There’s something intimate about seeing the quieter pieces of someone’s life. The parts they don’t intentionally present to the world. Riley spends so much time acting easygoing and playful that I don’t think most people notice how much care and attentiveness exists underneath it all. But it’s everywhere in this room.

I force myself out of bed before my brain spirals any further and head quietly down the hallway toward the bathroom. The duplex is still silent, and I close the door behind me before brushing my teeth. After splashing water on my face, my attention pulls me toward the medicine cabinet.

Now, in my defense, I’m not technically snooping. The cabinet is simply…there. And curiosity is normal. So, I open it.

An entire skincare routine stares back at me. He has exfoliant, vitamin C serum. There’s a moisturizer with SPF. And heaven help me, there’s under-eye cream and a cleanser I recognize because people online swear it changes their lives.

I stare at the products in complete disbelief while my attraction to Riley somehow evolves into something even more ridiculous.

This man moisturizes. Daily, apparently. And uses sunscreen.

I quickly close the cabinet again, absurdly charmed by the discovery. Because it fits him perfectly. He takes care of people and apparently himself too. I catch my reflection in the mirror and point at myself accusingly.

“You need to calm down. It’s just skincare.”

I make my way downstairs, the smell of breakfast hits me, and my stomach growls. Riley stands in the kitchen wearing gray sweatpants and a black T-shirt that stretches across his shoulders in a way that lets me know this whole living arrangement is going to be just as hard as I thought. He glances up from the stove when he hears me and smiles.

“Morning.”

His voice is rougher than usual, deep from sleep, and my brain short-circuits as I see the frying pan on the stove in front of him.

“You cook?” I ask as I step farther into the kitchen.

He laughs. “You say that like you’re surprised.”

“I don’t know. Men your age usually survive on protein bars and pre-workout.”

“That’s offensive.” He gestures toward the stove with the spatula in hand. “I’m not a chef or anything, but I make a solid omelet.”