Page 104 of Let You Love Me

I narrow my eyes as steps over the knee-high gate, holding a hand out to me. “Do you trust me?”

I inhale, allowing a cleansing breath to ease the knot in my chest, and I nod, because I do. I really, really do trust Teagan, and the knowledge of that strikes me with enough force I move my feet.

Once they’re planted firmly on the other side of the gate, Teagan steps back and shakes his head. “Lane Turner,” he says, his tone teasing, “skinny dippingandbreaking into the park. What a rebel you are.”

“Are you making fun of me?” I ask archly.

“Only because you’re so damn cute.”

I shake my head, biting my lip as he draws me to his side, wrapping an arm around my shoulders in a friendly gesture that makes me question if he really does only see me as a friend.

“Whatever shall we do with you.” He guides us past the grassy knoll toward the playground, over a walking trail, and through a grove of trees until we reach a bench that overlooks a vast, green field that the park uses for recreational sports.

“It’s not the lake,” he says, sitting and tugging me down with him. “I’m sure your place has a much better view, but it’s quiet and pretty all the same.”

He’s right on both counts.

I take a seat beside him. The sun is already a dipping fireball in the sky, but from our spot on the bench with the field stretched out before us, it seems to go on for miles.

I’m quiet as we watch, both of us settling into a companionable silence and decompressing from the excitement and chaos, as fun as it was, from our time spent at the exhibit. I bite my lip, wishing I could lean into him and lay my head on his shoulder. But that’s something a girlfriend would do. And I shouldn’t wish for things like that because it’ll only end in disappointment.

As if he can sense the direction of my thoughts, he reaches out, only hesitating a moment before he laces his fingers through mine.

And this isn’t something a boyfriend would do?

I give my inner voice the middle finger and close my eyes, focusing on his touch, the warmth of his hand, the rough bite of his calluses against my palm.

“Tell me what you’re thinking?” he murmurs, and when I blink my eyes open, I find him staring down at me, a hunger in his eyes that takes my breath away.

My thoughts scatter, my mind a minefield. One wrong move and I might detonate. So I shake my head, clearing my throat as I rip my gaze from his. “Nothing.”

He doesn’t push.

Instead, I see him shift in my periphery to stare back out at the last of the sunset. “You asked your father about me?”

My mouth hitches. “I was wondering when you’d bring that up.”

“What did you want to know? You know I’d tell you anything.” He gives my hand a squeeze to emphasize his words, and I nod.

“It wasn’t like that. I wasn’t . . . prying for information,” I say for lack of better words. “I just asked him about how he thought you were doing. How far he thought football might take you. If he thought you had a shot to go pro, that’s all. I was just, I don’t know, wondering after our conversation the other night.”

Teagan hums. “And what did he say?”

I jab him in the ribs. “Fishing for inside information, Nichols?”

He chuckles, a soft rumble that vibrates through me even from a distance. “Just curious,” he says.

It shouldn’t bother me if he wants to know. Of course he craves his coach’s approval, but there’s a tiny part of me that fears the second he finds out my father sees his potential and believes he could make it all the way, he’ll be gone. Just another Chance Lockhart who once held a piece of my heart.

And therein lies the problem.

Teagan Nichols was never supposed to have a piece of my heart in the first place. And fuck it all to hell if he isn’t bulldozing his way in and staking claim.

It’s with this in mind that I say, “In not so specific terms, he basically said he thinks you have the potential to go wherever you want football to take you. He called you a dark horse.”

I can see the sheer pleasure this brings him, the way his eyes brighten a little more, and his smile widens, deepening his dimples.

My heart lurches. “That pleases you,” I say, then cringe because it sounds more like an accusation than a statement.

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