Page 89 of The Home Grown
“Let’s go for a drink, Mike,” I blurt, turning away to hide my glowing face; hot and flushed.
I grab his hand to lead him away, but I come to an abrupt stop. My hand trapped in an anchored embrace.
“Kitch?” he says.
Oh, my goodness. I’m going to have to turn and look at him. I’m going to have to look him in the eye while he asks me what the hell I just did, and he’ll force me to come clean—tell him how I feel.
But I can’t. Because I’m already out of bravery today. I’ve depleted the well and all that’s left is the silt at the bottom.
“Hm?” I murmur, opting to go passive.
But he tugs on my arm, and I know I can’t leave it any longer. I have to look at him; I have to turn around and … I lock eyes with him and the concourse full of people, busy and frantic, floats away until there’s only us.
Oh, God.
He takes a step forward and tugs my hand, pulling me towards him, then he releases his grip, letting my arm drop to my side.
“Kitch—you’ve got to give me more than that,” he says, a teasing tone in his voice.
“I—” Whatever I was going to say catches in my throat when his left hand cups my cheek. Heat. Sizzling contact as his skin touches mine. Then he dips his head, slow and sure, like he’s giving me a chance to step away. But I don’t. My body does that thing again … where it decides before my brain catches up.
And before I know it, I’m moving in and closing the gap.
“Betts!”
There’s someone shouting his name. But instead of backing away, his lips are on mine and the world around me fades again.
Oh, God.
I feel drunk. Like my head is fuzzy and there’s a current flowing through my veins. And the feeling increases tenfold when he parts his lips and mine follow in sync. Eager. Desperate, even. And my hands take on a life of their own, gripping his suit jacket—clinging onto him like I’ll collapse if I don’t.
His tongue brushes mine and I’ve lost it. I’ve folded into him and anyone could be watching—someoneiswatching.
“Betts!”
Mike pauses, cupping my chin with his hand as he pulls away, resting his forehead on mine for a beat—his eyes closed for a fraction of a second longer before he peels them open, locking eyes on mine. He smiles, intertwining my hand in his, before he turns towards the voice.
“Coach,” he says. “Sorry, I didn’t?—”
“Nah, I don’t suppose you did. And I guess I wouldn’t typically interrupt a public display like that. I wondered if I was mistaken at first, because I wasn’t expecting to see you here.”
“I guess I could say the same thing about you, Coach.”
“Just passing through,” Coach says. Then his eyes linger on me for a second, like he’s waiting for Mike to introduce us … why isn’t he introducing us?
Then it hits me. Coach. Mike’s Coach … and for the second time today, I act on impulse, letting my instinct take over. I hold my hand out and step forward to introduce myself.
“Hi, I’m Ellie—Mike’s wife. It’s so nice to meet you.”
He grins at me and Mike swivels his head in my direction, mouth open in a perfect ‘o’, a hint of my lipstick smeared on his lips.
“Well, I must admit, I’m glad to see you’ve settled down,” Coach says, flashing a grin towards Mike. “I never thought he’d have it in him.”
Okay, now I’m confused. I stare blankly at Mike.
“Uh—yeah,” he says, turning back towards Coach. “Ellie, this is Coach Sinclair. He used to coach me at junior level. I mean—how long’s it been, Coach?”
Oh,God.
