Page 3 of Winning the Quarterback
"I think you know exactly how charming you are," I counter, feeling a blush rise to my cheeks. "I'm sure you've had plenty of practice."
"Not as much as you'd think." He steps closer, reaches past me to gently collect Pudding, who allows himself to be picked up with unexpected docility. "Here. I'll walk you guys back across the street."
Our fingers brush as he transfers my cat to my arms, and there it is again—that current of awareness, like static electricity but warmer, deeper. His eyes lock with mine for a breath too long to be casual.
"Thanks," I murmur, suddenly finding it difficult to look directly at him. He's like the sun, too bright, too much.
Outside, the golden afternoon light has softened toward evening, casting long shadows across Willowbrook Lane. A breeze sends leaves spiraling between us as we pause at the edge of his driveway.
"It was nice meeting you, Nora," Devin says, hands sliding into his pockets. "You and Pudding."
"You too." I shift my cat in my arms, his warm weight a comfort against my suddenly racing heart. "And, um, welcome back to Whitetail Falls."
He nods, something unreadable crossing his face. "It's... different than I remember."
"Good different or bad different?"
His eyes meet mine again, and this time his smile reaches them, slow and genuine. "Just different. But maybe good. Yeah."
I cross the street feeling his gaze on my back the whole way, and it's only when I'm back on my porch that I allow myself to look over my shoulder. Devin stands where I left him, watching me with an expression I can't decipher from this distance.
He lifts his hand in a small wave before turning back to his boxes.
"Well," I tell Pudding as I set him down on the porch swing, "that was... something."
Pudding yawns, supremely unimpressed.
I pick up my laptop, but the screen has gone dark, the story forgotten. Derek and Jenny will have to wait for their kiss. My mind is too full of hazel eyes and dimples and the strange, sudden certainty that my quiet life has just become considerably more interesting.
Across the street, Devin Turner carries another box inside, and I pretend I'm not watching the way the fading sunlight gilds his profile.
I'm not staring. I'm conducting research…
Chapter 2 – Devin
I've renovated three houses and built one from scratch, but somehow Eleanor Turner's cottage feels like the biggest project of my life. Maybe because it's not just walls and floors I'm trying to fix.
Early sunlight streams through the living room windows, catching dust motes that dance in the air as I pry open another box. The cottage smells like cedar and furniture polish and faintly of the lavender sachets my grandmother tucked into every drawer. I've been up since dawn, sorting through years of memories and making mental renovation lists.
But if I'm honest, I'm distracted as hell.
I keep replaying yesterday's encounter with the woman across the street. Nora Bell with her wide eyes and quick smile. The way she looked both embarrassed and determined chasing her cat. How she held my gaze just long enough to make my pulse kick before glancing away.
I set aside a stack of my grandmother's cookbooks, pausing when I find the one with handwritten notes in the margins.My throat tightens.
Through the open window, I catch a glimpse of Nora's house—a small craftsman with deep blue trim and window boxes spilling over with flowers. Her porch swing sways slightly in the breeze, though I don't see her outside yet. Maybe she's still sleeping.
OrmaybeI should stop wondering about the daily habits of a woman I just met.
I'm not usually like this.
My phone buzzes on the counter. My agent, probably with another "opportunity" I'm not interested in. I ignore it and move to the window, stretching my shoulders.
As I turn back to my boxes, something small and bright catches my eye in the grass near the driveway. I step outside, bending to pick it up.
A tiny blue collar with a bell, probably meant for a cat.
I turn it over in my palm, a smile tugging at my mouth. Pudding's, maybe? I didn't notice him wearing one yesterday, but it could have slipped off during his mad dash across the street.
