Page 20 of Broken Play
But as he leans in, all those rules blur into the sunset. His lips are soft, careful at first, as if he's making sure I won't bolt. It's my first kiss since I kissed him in the nightclub. Sliding my palms to his collar, I fist his shirt in my hands,pulling him into me. The kiss becomes firmer as he grows more certain that I want this too. His lips part, testing the waters, and I let him in. The mix of my fruity, sweet sangria and his crisp, clean beer melds together as we explore our connection.
The cornbread timer beeps from the kitchen, and we finally part. Breathless and blown away, he traces my lips with a lingering thumb.
"We are so screwed," I mutter, and his grin tells me he's already decided it's worth it.
I'm worth it.
ELEVEN
GREYSON
Sutton is unlike anyone I've met before—confident in her new role as general manager despite knowing little about football just weeks ago. Still, I notice her flickering smile, the hesitation behind her confidence. I want to keep kissing her, but I hold back, wondering if it's because she's my boss—or if someone else made her doubt she deserves happiness.
"I'd better get the cornbread out of the oven before it burns," I say, standing up. As I walk through the open French door, I look over my shoulder and see her fingers trailing over her lips. My pulse races, and I can't stop the happiness blooming in my chest. It's the first time I've been truly happy since we won the conference championship, the night I met her at the nightclub.
After I take the cast-iron skillet from the oven and cut the cornbread into pie-shaped pieces, I stack them on a plate and then spoon the summer soup into a bowl. "Want a refill?"
"One more, but I have to drive home, and honestly, I'm not used to drinking much."
"Do you want to eat on the porch or inside?" I ask.
"Outside." She grabs her bowl and glass, and I follow behind her with mine and the cornbread.
The sun has fallen beneath the horizon, and only a dusting of purple fades to black, so I turn on the twinkle lights that Noelle insisted on putting up. In her words, it gives the area ambience.
Sutton blows on the soup before taking a tentative bite. Then she sinks her teeth into the cornbread, and a little groan of happiness slips from her mouth. "Is it legal for cornbread to be this good?" she asks, holding up a piece.
"I learned from the best—my mom. It's her recipe. She believed anything short of a stick of butter per slice was a crime against humanity."
"Sounds like my kind of woman, even though for most of my life, I've had to steer clear of comfort foods. And this chili is incredible."
"Growing up, Mom would feed the neighborhood and send them home with leftovers, whether they wanted them or not," I say, then clear my throat, chasing my feelings with a gulp of beer.
Sutton nudges me with her knee. "Your vegetable chili game is so strong."
Heartache thuds against my ribs as I stare into my bowl, and my eyes water. My head falls back against the frame of the couch. It still hurts, even though it's been sixteen years.
We're silent for a few minutes, and Sutton places her bowl on the outdoor coffee table. "Did I say something wrong? You got quiet." Her voice is tender and soft, like her lips. Her tone reminds me of how my mom would talk to me gently about any problems I was having.
I brush a crumb off my jeans. "She passedaway."
"Oh, God, I'm so sorry. I just assumed your parents were divorced. You don't have to talk about it."
"She died after giving birth to Witt, my youngest brother." I shrug, trying to be casual, like I'm over it, but that is far from the truth. The words keep tumbling out, all rough and sore. "Dad always said Noelle and I have her spirit. But every time I make her chili and cornbread, it feels like she's here for a minute, you know?"
She lays her hand just above my knee. "I can't imagine how much that hurts or how many pounds of cornbread it takes to even begin to fill that void. For what it's worth, I'm sure she's proud of you. Look at all you've achieved." She takes a breath.
Soaking in her compassion, I feel the pain in my chest ease a bit, and I squeeze her hand. I'm grateful for someone willing to just sit and eat in silence without feeling the need to fill the void.
A few minutes pass before Sutton stands and reaches for my bowl. "I'll do the dishes."
"We can do them together. You're not one of those people who can't have anything out of place, are you?" I stand and follow her inside.
She twists her head, glancing at me. "No, but I'm not messy."
We stand shoulder to shoulder, more intimate than washing dishes seems. She has an off-white tank top on, hitting just above her belly button, giving me a peek at her midriff. Her shorts show off her legs.
As we tag-team the dishes, our hips bump, our arms graze, and sparks prickle every nerve. When I accidentally splash her with water, she nudges me with her elbow. I'll do anything for her touch, so I grin before flicking a fewmore drops her way, pretending it was an accident—but she's a competitor, and suddenly she's splashing a wave of soapy water across my chest, wetting my white dress shirt.
