Page 38 of Off Court Fix

Crosby doesn’t smile back.

“What?” I ask.

“Are you alright?”

I hold my arms up. “Don’t I look alright?”

“How you look,gorgeous, by the way,” Crosby says, lowering his voice and I swallow heavily. “Isn’t what I asked about. Are you alright?” he repeats.

I purse my lips beneath his stare and nod my head. I am alright if I don’t think too much about it. And the truth is, I feel better than alright with him next to me.

I step aside to make room on the path, but Crosby doesn’t use it. He stands flush against me, and even though we’re both facing forward, I know he grins when the light hair dusting his forearm paints my skin with tiny goosebumps. I release the breath that hitches in my throat and turn over my shoulder, out to the street.

“No nosy, snooty neighbors here,” Crosby tells me before flicking his head back toward the side door. “Come in.”

Crosby’s home is a small ranch bungalow with light hardwood floors that creak with character and charm beneath every other step of my feet. I watch him step around me into a small open kitchen where a rolling bar cart is parked.

“Drink? I have vodka in the freezer and white wine in the fridge.”

I glance at the other alcohol—whiskey, gin, a bottle of scotch.

“Water would be great.”

Crosby looks up. “You really don’t drink, huh?”

“Is there something wrong with that?”

“Do you always answer a questionwitha question?”

I roll my eyes, and Crosby laughs before stepping away from the cart. “Water is boring. And you’re anything but.”

He opens a cabinet to grab two tall glasses before filling them with handfuls of ice. I take a seat at one of the barstools and squint curiously when he turns from the fridge with a jar of maraschino cherries, placing it in front of me along with a can of Sprite. When I raise my eyebrow in question, Crosby pops open the can.

“Shirley Temple. Sweet, but with a littlekick.” He tilts the glass, filling it. “Little bit like you.”

I watch Crosby continue to mix the drink, spooning some syrupy liquid from the can before dropping in a few cherries. “Not sure I’m all that sweet.”

“No. But you are rather delicious, I imagine.”

My eyes fly to his, and I swallow the ball that’s taken up residence in my throat, clearly enough for Crosby to notice and be amused by, judging by the way his lips swirl into a coy grin.

I focus on the glass in front of me, bringing it to my lips before setting it back down and looking around. “Your home is nice,” I say, taking in the character of the older but refinished beams, what looks like the comfort of the leather couch across the room. “Have you lived here long?”

“About forty years. I grew up here.” Crosby pockets his hands, and his answer surprises me.

“Really?” I ask, turning my head to the other side of the room and seeing a piano. “Do you play?” When I look back at Crosby, I find him staring at me, those hazel eyes swimming in thought. “The piano. Do you play?”

“Not very well.” The silence that follows makes me squirm in my seat, so I’m about to ask himanotherquestion when my stomach interrupts us.

Crosby laughs, and I’m grateful for the slightly awkward break in tension. “Thought we’d eat those lobster rolls out back.”

* * *

Like the front of his home, Crosby’s backyard is equally impressive as far as the landscaping goes. From the small couch on the lanai, I admire the lush grass, the beauty of the fence packed withmorehydrangeas.

“I’m going to need the number of your landscaper,” I say, finishing my lobster roll and wiping my fingers on a napkin. “Clearly I’ve hired the wrong people.”

Crosby reaches across the small table in front of the couch we sit on and grabs a knife, cutting the last lobster roll and offering me half. “You can’t afford me,” he jokes, taking a bite.

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