Page 61 of The Perfect Pass
He lifted a single eyebrow. “Easy there, tiger.”
She swatted him with her dish towel before folding it into a neat square. Then she surprised him by stretching up on tiptoe to kiss him on the cheek. Her lips lingered, soft and warm against his skin.
“Night night,” she whispered.
“Night night.”
And then she was gone, and every time Jackson glanced in the direction of the house from the garage apartment later that night, a gentle light glowed from her bedroom window. Whatever she was up to, she was attacking it in full Calla Dunne fashion.
Come what may,she’d said.
Those words didn’t bode well. Doubt crept its way under his skin. He wanted only good things for Calla. She deserved that much. But he also knew that speaking her mind was integral to who she was. He just wasn’t sure Bishop Falls was ready to hear whatever she had to say.
Jackson’s heart felt full and empty at the same time as he rested his head on his pillow and closed his eyes. His feet didn’t hang off the bed here. In fact, the mattress felt just right. And in the last moments before he drifted off to sleep, he leaned over to scoop Bishop onto the empty space beside him.
“Just this once,” Jackson lied. “This isn’t going to be a regular thing.”
The bulldog knew better, though. He emitted a satisfied huff as he nosed the sheets, then stretched out beside Jackson as if he owned every inch of the mattress.
Home at last.
Chapter Seventeen
Come see me as soon as you get in.
The text from Stan arrived just as Calla was taking the first sip of her Monday morning Hail Mary Mocha at Huddle Up. She knew it had to be coming, but she’d been hoping to avoid her boss until lunchtime at the very least.
Monday had never been Stan’s favorite day of the week. Nor was he particularly fond of Tuesdays, Wednesdays or Thursdays. Fridays were marginally better, because that was doughnut day in the break room, but she knew there was zero chance she could steer clear of him for an entire week—not after the column she’d turned in late last Friday night.
“Uh-oh,” Bailey said from across the counter as she returned from pouring a half-dozen black coffees for her regulars from the Victory Club. Either those guys hadn’t spotted Calla yet, or—surprise, surprise—they were purposefully ignoring her. “I know that look on your face. What’s wrong?”
Calla slipped her phone back inside her red leather handbag. The interior was printed with a cutesy heart print, invisible to the outside world. Kind of like Calla’sactualheart. Only that wasn’t true anymore, now that she’d spilled her guts all over the sports page of theLone Star Gazette.
“It’s Stan. He wants to see me as soon as I get in.” Calla’s leg jiggled on her barstool, and she wished she could blame it on her caffeine intake. Alas, her tolerance was typically more than a single sip. Make no mistake, this was clear-cut anxiety.
“You have nothing to worry about. If he was going to fire you, he never would’ve run that column in the first place,” Bailey said.
True, and it wasn’t as if Calla hadn’t given him the opportunity to do so. She hadn’t minced a single word in the reference line of her email.
“Run this, or I quit.”
Stan hadn’t bothered to send a response. She’d had no idea if she was still employed or not until the freshly printed newspaper landed on the front lawn early Saturday morning and she saw her column for herself. She’d stared in disbelief when she realized Stan had run the rewritten version in its entirety, word for word, just as she’d typed it. Up until then, she kind of figured she’d been fired by default.
“That was before the fallout,” Calla countered.
Bailey’s eyes widened. “What fallout? What did I miss?”
“I don’t know.” Calla bit her lip. She’d spent the entire weekend holed up in the house—not on purpose, exactly. When Jackson announced he had hours upon hours of game tapes to study and watch, her dad had been all too eager to sit and keep him company. Before Calla knew it, she’d been propped on the sofa with a bucket of popcorn on her lap and a snoring bulldog warming her feet. Much to her astonishment, it had been the best weekend she could remember having in a long, long time.
“Stan could just as easily want to tell youthat your article was a stroke of genius. You already know I think it was. Ethan would’ve thought so, too.” Bailey’s mouth curved into a tender smile. “If anyone says otherwise—Stanley Miller included—I just might frame it and hang it next to your brother’s portrait.”
Calla grinned, despite the apprehension gnawing at her insides. “I appreciate your faithful and only slightly biased support.”
“That’s what best friends are for. Now stop spiraling and let’s talk about something truly important.” Bailey drummed her cotton-candy-hued fingernails on the coffee counter. “Like your new roommate. Where is he this morning, anyway? He and Cade always stop by for coffee before school.”
“They scheduled an early-morning practice for today. Jackson wanted to get a jump on the week since the game Friday night is so important.” If the team lost, the Victory Club could have him fired on the spot. No pressure or anything. “Also, he’s not my roommate. He’s just a…”
Calla hesitated. “…houseguest.”
