Page 79 of Practice Makes Perfect
And, if not, we can keep things strictly to the lessons.
The reflection staring back at me in the mirroralmostbelieves that’s possible.
I’ve spent an embarrassing amount of time on my appearance. My makeup is “natural”—requiring only forty-fiveminutes. My hair is down in loose waves that took an hour to look effortlessly tousled. I’m wearing my good underwear—a matching French set?—
The knock at my door stops my brain for a second, then reboots it, sending my pulse into hummingbird territory. Well, it’s the moment of truth. I wait three seconds—a perfectly calculated delay to seem casual—before walking over to the door and opening it.
And there he is, with the absolutenerveto stand there looking likethat.
Linc is wearing dark jeans that fit his thighs in ways that should be criminal and a simple green t-shirt that hugs his chest like I want to. His hair is freshly buzzed on the sides and there’s a tiny nick near his jawline where he must have cut himself shaving.
“Hey,” he says, and even that one syllable has my stomach doing something that feels like a pirouette but with less grace and more chaos.
“Hey yourself,” I respond, then immediately cringe, stepping aside to let him in. “Come on in.”
He walks into my dorm with an easy confidence that both impresses and irritates me. Why does he get to be so composed while I’m internally drafting and redrafting every word before it leaves my mouth, then wishing I had an editor and a proofreader…
“Your place looks different,” he says, scanning the room.
“Different how?”
“Cleaner.” A smile tugs at his lips. “Wait, did you alphabetize your books?”
“No,” I lie. “They’re also organized by subject, size, and color.”
His gaze catches on the madeleines sitting on a plate on my desk. “You bake?”
“My grandmother did. She insisted I bring some to share.”
Linc picks one up, examines it, then takes a bite. His expression immediately shifts from curiosity to what can only be described as culinary bliss, and before long, he’s onto his second.
“Holy shit, these are good,” he says.
“Say that to my grandmother,” I laugh. “She’ll adopt you on the spot.”
“I’d let her.” He finishes the madeleine, brushing crumbs from his fingers. “So…”
“So…” I echo.
It’s suddenly very warm in here.
“How was your week?” I ask, desperate to delay tonight’s lesson.
“Good. Busy with practice.” He follows me into my bedroom and sits on the edge of my bed, the navy sheets apparently passing whatever test he was consciously or unconsciously giving them. “Coach has been riding us hard since the win against Brown.”
“You were really good.” I try to sound casual, like I just happened to be passing and decided to spend two hours watching him.
His eyes find mine. “Thanks for coming. It was… nice to see a friendly face in the crowd.”
Just a friendly face?
I suppress a twinge of disappointment.
What was I expecting?
I saw you wearing my jersey and it made me realize we’re destined to be together?
“I might come to another game,” I offer. “If you don’t mind.”
