Page 26 of Lucky Baller
“That would be her.”
“Nice.” Jack holds his fist out for me.
“Lucky Bastard,” Kaden mumbles. “Why you gotta take all the prime pussy, QB?”
I ignore the fact that he just referred to Tessa as pussy and push forward. It’s how we talk, we’ve all done it, but it suddenly feels wrong when we’re talking abouther. “Look, she hurt her ankle, and the volunteers are random at best, according to Tessa, so I’m just helping out. Feeding some dogs and whatever else needs to be done. No big deal.”
“Maybe we should come with you,” Jack offers. “You know, lend our brawn.” He flexes his arms as if to show off his muscles.
“Nah, it’s good. Thanks, though.”
“Oh, I see,” Kaden announces. “You’re afraid she’ll drop you and go for the real Cougar stud.” He puffs out his chest, and we laugh at his display.
“It’s no big deal. I’m just being nice. That’s all.”
“Okay.” Trent grins. “If that’s how you want to play it. Boys, I’m going home to my wife. I’ll see your ugly mugs on Monday.”
With a wave of goodbyes, we all go our separate ways, at least Trent and I do. I don’t stick around to see if the guys are meeting up at Henry’s now or later, for that matter. I have somewhere I need to be. After all, I never break a promise.
Chapter Seven
Tessa
It’s Saturday afternoon, and I’ve been lounging around the house all day. My ankle still hurts, and I figure two days of rest and I should be good as new for work next week. Autumn is on call this weekend for the shelter, so I don’t have to worry about following up to make sure the volunteers show up. We’ve talked about hiring another part-time person. Someone to staff the weekends, but it’s hard to find someone willing to work both weekend days. The hours could be flexible, as long as the animals are fed and watered, the cages are cleaned, and the dogs get to stretch their legs. They could do that in a couple of hours each day. It’s something I should bring up again and see what she says.
My house is clean, the laundry is washed, folded, and put away, and I have a chicken casserole in the Crock-Pot. It’s way too much food for just me, so that will be my meals for the weekend, and I’ll take the rest to work and send it home with Autumn for her and Jeremy on Monday. When I do cook, that’susually what I end up doing with it. They don’t seem to mind, and I hate the thought of food going to waste.
I’m scrolling through Netflix, trying to find a new series to binge-watch, when my phone pings with a message.
Number 18: How’s your day going?
Me: Just hanging around the house. Yours?
I hesitate before hitting send. Replying like this opens up an all-new category of texting. Do I want that? I have to admit, Landon has surprised me. He came back to the shelter yesterday and, in no time, had everything on my to-do list completed. Of course, it helped that Autumn was like a mother hen, not letting me get out of my chair. Needless to say, with his help, I got caught up on all of my busy work that there never seems to be enough time in the day to complete. Hence, the reason I’m bored. I normally bring it home with me to work on during the weekend. I don’t mind it, and I know Autumn appreciates me doing so as she does the same thing. I try to take on that role as she has a husband and a little boy at home. I’m just me. My mom is back home in Georgia, and my dating life is nonexistent at the moment.
Number 18: Same. How about some dinner?
Me: Already in the Crock-Pot.
I’m glad that this is the truth and I don’t have to lie or just blatantly shut him down again. I would have thought he would have given up by now.
Number 18: Perfect. What time should I be there?
Me: …
Number 18: Come on, Tess. A man’s gotta eat.
His text is followed by a picture of the inside of what I assume is his refrigerator. It’s empty except for a carton of eggs, a gallon of milk, a few bottles of water, a couple of cans of White Claw, and a few bottles of Gatorade.
Me: I’m thinking you need to go grocery shopping.
Number 18: Will you go with me?
Me: No.
Number 18: I didn’t think so. I’ll be there in an hour. Do I need to bring anything?
Me: You’re not invited.
