Page 83 of Changing the Playbook
The casual care in his voice does something dangerous to my heart. “Yeah.”
“Does this mean more fun?” Hazel asks hopefully.
Mike and I lock eyes. I should take her home, put the TV on for her, and tackle my mountain of reading. Be responsible. But Mike’s knee finds mine again, and the afternoon light turns his brown eyes to whiskey, and I desperately don’t want this to end.
“Actually,” Mike says slowly, “there’s a rock-climbing gym I’ve been wanting to try. They have kids’ routes…”
“Can we?” Hazel bounces. “Please please please?”
My brain immediately catalogs potential disasters: broken bones, rope burns, liability waivers that will leave us bereft and without legal recourse while trying to pay for expensive medical bills?—
But Mike interrupts gently. “They have auto-belays and trained staff. Foam padding twelve inches thick. I checked.”
Of course he researched safety protocols before suggesting an activity for my sister. “OK,” I hear myself say. “Let’s do it.”
Hazel cheers. Mike grins. And I pretend this doesn’t feel dangerously like something I could get used to. And, as we pack up, I watch him organize the cooler with the same focus heprobably brings to power plays, and there’s this tiny scar at the corner of his jaw that I’ve memorized but never asked about.
“Where’s the scar from?” I ask. “Hockey?”
“Nah,” he shrugs. “I slipped on a diving board and hit my chin.”
“New thing?” I raise an eyebrow.
“Yeah, won’t be diving again any time soon.”
I smile. “You ever gonna run out of new things?”
“Not as long as I have you.”
Heat races to my face. “You tried things before me…”
“True.” He rocks back on his heels. “But it’s more fun with you. Everything is.”
His gaze drops to my mouth—quick, there and gone—but enough to send my pulse into cardiac arrest territory. I should say something witty. Defuse this before I do something stupid like tackle him onto the picnic blanket and find out if he tastes as good as he smells.
Instead, I grab the nearest container. “We should go. Beat the climbing rush.”
“Right. The famous 3:00 p.m. climbing rush.” Amusement colors his voice.
“Very real thing. Peak hours. Ask anyone.”
“Anyone in the extensive climbing community?”
“Exactly. It’s common knowledge.”
“Based on your years of climbing experience?”
That smile should be illegal in several states. He knows exactly what he’s doing, sitting there looking like a sports equipment ad that gained sentience and decided to torment me specifically. But before I get the chance to admire him any more, or throw out another witty retort, Hazel sighs.
“Are you two gonna do this all day or are we climbing?” She stands by the trail, hands on hips, eight years old and already over our bullshit.
“We’re not doing anything,” I protest.
Mike grins. “Define ‘anything.’”
Hazel looks between us with weary patience. “You’re lucky you make good sandwiches. And you don’t run away from bugs. Sophie’s last boyfriend sucked.”
“He wasn’t—we went on two dates!”
