Page 42 of Filthy Player

“Well, no.” Her voice went softer. “I called to apologize, about…well…I wanted to say sorry for the other night.”

“I’m coming over.”

“No,” she half-whispered, half-shouted. “My dad’s sleeping, and I think it’s best if you don’t, Beaux, really. I just wanted to talk.”

Fuck that. She was giving me a sliver of an opening and I was sliding in.

“I’ll be there in twenty minutes, and you better answer your door.”

“Beaux—”

“Don’t worry, Paige, I can be quiet.”

I hung up on a breathy little gasp from her and tossed the phone into my cup holder. I expected a string of texts telling me not to come, giving me the brush off. Something.

I got nothing from her, which made me grin as I pulled back into traffic and hopped on the interstate, taking me straight to her.

We had things to talk about. Problems to figure out.

If I was getting to know Paige at all, she’d already concocted a list of reasons to keep me away.

Hell if I was listening to them.

I pulled up onto Paige’s street twenty-three minutes later, slowing down so the roar of my truck didn’t wake anyone even though it was only nine o’clock. But the neighborhood, while well-maintained, was still older and I already knew there was one elderly neighbor, Elsa, who lived nearby.

When I pulled up to Paige’s house, I slowed to a stop at the curb and hopped out of my truck, quietly closing the door.

She was sitting on her front porch, a glass of what looked like tea in her hands. She was rocking on a wooden swing, covered in the shade, feet pulled up on the swing, tan legs on full display with the short sweat shorts she was wearing.

Her brown hair was pulled into a mess on the top of her head, bits and pieces fraying around her temples and sides, and as I got closer, I could tell she wasn’t wearing any makeup.

She’d never looked more beautiful to me. She was always dressed casually when I saw her, but there was something about that picture, her lazily rocking back and forth, sipping what I assumed was sweet tea that hit me straight in the chest.

Visions of doing the same with her, night after night after a long day of work or a day off traveling, enjoying the quiet.

Doing nothing but being together and knowing it was the best thing to do.

That burn in my chest ignited all over again and I leapt up the stairs, settling myself against the railing.

“Hey,” I said, as I watched her gaze roam over my body, my eyes, my chest, dipping low quickly and snapping back up.

“Hey.”

“So you watched the game tonight?”

She sipped her tea and nodded. “We always do.”

“How is he?” I nodded toward the house. I didn’t need to specify I was asking about Sam.

She blew out her breath and brushed hair off her nape. “He broke his leg. Fell in a small hole off the sidewalk.”

“That doesn’t tell me if he’s okay.”

“He’s fine. Or he will be. He had surgery and…”

She bit her bottom lip, chin quivering.

I moved and pulled her next to me, rocking the swing and careful not to spill her drink. As soon as I pulled her into my arms, her head hit my chest and her shoulders shook.

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