Page 62 of Let You Love Me

He shrugs and goes back to hanging, but not before I catch a hint of a smile. “Just curious.”

After I finish washing the last of the dishes from dinner, I’m about to grab the novel I’ve been reading and settle in, when the doorbell rings.

With a frown, I hurry across the kitchen and through the open concept living room for the door, afraid the sound will wake Sophie, but one peek through the peephole has me raring back.

Teagan.

I inhale a sharp breath, unsure of what to make of his presence here on a Friday night just before a big game.Is this why he asked when my parents would be gone?

Before he can ring the doorbell again, I steady my hand on the knob and wrench it open. The sight of him sends a flurry of butterflies dancing in my chest.

He stands on the stoop in front of me, hair damp from the shower. He’s in a pair of athletic shorts and a navy-blue shirt that clings to his muscular chest, and my first thought is how good he smells. Like soap and citrus with a hint of spice.

“Teagan, what are you doing here?”

He glances behind me, craning his neck to peer inside as he whispers, “Is your father gone?”

“Yeah,” I drawl. “I told you, they’re at the reunion. What are you doing here?” I ask again, sure there must be some ulterior motive for visiting me when he knows they’ll be gone.

He shrugs and the corners of his lips curl. “I just wanted to see you, so I thought . . .”

I arch a brow. “You thought you’d come to my parents’ house while they’re gone, after my father explicitly warned the team I was off-limits?”

“Something like that.” He smirks and his dimples pop.

My skin rises to gooseflesh at the notion that this man, this beautiful, charming man, wants to see me, and is willing to risk himself to do it.

“You either have balls of steel or you’re really stupid,” I blurt.

His head cocks. “I’m partial to the balls of steel theory, but in truth, I might be a little bit of both.” He motions behind me. “So, are you going to invite me in or not?”

Not.

I shoulddefinitelynot.

“I don’t know . . .” I stall because the idea of being with Teagan, alone, in my own home makes my stomach do weird things.

“Lane,” he scolds. “How are we supposed to be friends if you keep pushing me away? Friends hang out, don’t they?”

I know what he’s doing, and I want to call him out on it. He can call us friends all he wants, but we’re not. Aside from the fact we hardly know each other, we’re something in-between friends and more, some indefinable entity that doesn’t exist. Which is ridiculous when I think about it. But ridiculous or not, it’s the truth.

Or maybe I’m just so damn starved for male affection, I’m reading into things that don’t exist.

I frown at the thought, then clear my throat and step aside. “It’s your funeral,” I say, because my father coming home early is a very real possibility.

He tentatively steps inside, turning back to ask, “How long do we have?”

“He compromised at leaving around ten, but if I’m right, they’ll leave before that.”

“That gives us two hours, maybe less if I’m being cautious.” He grimaces. “Which I probably should be.”

I shake my head, shocked he’s really here, and I really let him in. We’re doing this. Hanging out at home on a Friday night. Alone.

God, I feel like a preschooler.

“Shouldn’t you be prepping for your game?” I ask, trying to get a reign on my nerves.

Teagan shrugs. “There’s more to life than football.”

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