Page 47 of The Overtime Kiss

When she struggles, I help her break it down and find the joy in the sport too. That’s what I tried to recapture in college—after taking a year off to see a therapist, work at a coffee shop, and get my mind right again. It worked. I started skating for fun and, eventually, for performance. Turns out I like the performance side better than competition.

But I love teaching most of all. When we finish, Jasmine asks, “Do you think I can go to the Olympics? Or maybe the national championships? It would be so cool to be the first Black girl since Debi Thomas to win a medal.”

My chest swells with hope. But tightens, too, since I don’t want to say the wrong thing, especially since I love her dreams, and her pride in what they might mean. “I think anything is possible. But the most important thing is to keep showing up—if you love the sport.”

“I do love it,” she says, resolute and hopeful all at once.

“Then I’ll see you at our next lesson,” I say, naming the time and date. Tyler is heading out of town in two days, but Jasmine does afternoon lessons too, so I can make those before I pick up the kids.

She smiles, then takes off. Soon, I close the rink, send a thank you message to the owners—Hank and Marla—and head outside as my phone pings with a reply from Marla, a long row of smiley faces and snowflakes. The sun is up now, shining brightly above the horizon as I drive home, energized by the lesson.

Home.

The word drifts through my mind again. I haven’t really felt like I’ve had a home recently, not after bouncing from Isla’s couch to Starla’s micro-studio over the summer, and before that…well, Fuck Chad’s place doesn’t count.

What a weird thought—to think of Tyler’s house as myhome. Well, it’s my home for now, and I suppose that’s all I can ask for.

I pull into the garage next to his sleek electric car. He’s probably inside, getting the kids ready for school.

Since I don’t need to “clock in” just yet, I head to my apartment, tug off my skating clothes, and grab a navy blue towel as I turn on the shower. Is this my towel? It’s fluffier than I remember, and it smells fresh and new. Must be one of Tyler’s guest towels.

The steam begins filling the stall as the water heats up. I’m about to step in when I glance at the shower shelf.

“Seriously?” I groan.

I forgot to bring my shampoo and conditioner inside yesterday. Bet that’s what’s in the canvas bag on the floor of my car.

After turning off the water, I wrap the towel tightly around myself, grab my car keys, and peer into the hallway. It’s quiet, and the garage door is only a few feet away.

I dart across the hall, open the door, and head to my car, pressing the key fob to unlock it.

“Gotcha,” I mutter, snatching the bag and shutting the door loudly. But when I spin around, I freeze.

I’m not alone.

The hot dad I work for is standing in the garage, dressed in a gray college T-shirt and a pair of basketball shorts, staring at me with eyes as wide as Moon Pies.

In no time, I grab at the top of my towel, tugging it higher above my breasts. Decorum and all. “I was getting shampoo. And conditioner,” I offer hastily, as if that explains everything.

Even though Icouldhave put on clothes. But I took a chance.

Tyler’s silent for a beat, his jaw slack. Then he clears his throat and, several seconds later, blurts, “I was…getting some sausage from…” He points vaguely at the white freezer on the far side of the garage.

“The freezer?” I supply, since speech seems to be failing him.

“Um. Yeah. The freezer,” he says thickly, his voice rough, sending a rush of heat down my spine.

With my free hand, I smooth the bottom of the towel, making sure it’s securely in place. Except…a very naughty devil on my shoulder has half a mind to say,“So…want to throw me down on the bed and devour me?”

At least, thoselooklike eyes that want to devour a woman. Pupils dilated. Intense eye contact. Heat.

I think?

What do I know?

I only know Fuck Chad.

But I want to know what it’s like to be wanted. To be adored. To be devoured. To be…

---