Page 3 of Touchdown Under the Mistletoe
“So, you’re still teaching fifteen-year-olds, right? English?” I ask.
“Yeah, I am.”
She sounds surprised that I remember, but how could I forget anything about her life? Even if it’s only small tidbits that my mother or Beau tells me. Although she’s three years younger than I am, I’ve always had a soft spot for her.
“Still love it?” I ask her.
“I do, even though some of these kids know exactly how to push my buttons,” she says with a laugh.
“I can imagine. I haven’t forgotten what my friends and I were like back in high school. Poor Mrs. Kendall,” I say as I hand her a stack of towels.
Our fingers brush for a second, and Riley pulls back quickly.
“Thanks for the towels. I should probably get these back before my mom sends out a search party.”
“I’ll help you carry them over,” I say, grabbing another stack.
“Travis, you really don’t have to do that.”
I shake my head. “Riley, it’s towels. Not exactly heavy lifting. I’m used to dealing with 300-pound linebackers. Besides, what kind of neighbor would I be if I let you trudge through the snow alone?”
“We’re not neighbors, Travis. Not anymore,” she says as if that makes her sad.
The words hang in the air for a second, and I realize she’s right. We both moved away. Built a life somewhere else. But standing here with her, it feels like no time has passed at all.
“Technically, no. But to me, you’ll always be the girl next door,” I say.
Her eyes widen in surprise, but she immediately reels in whatever she’s feeling. “Fine, you can help me carry these towels. But if you slip and fall, I’m not carrying you back.”
I grin. “Deal.”
We head back downstairs, and I’m hyperaware of the space between us. It’s not awkward or anything—more like careful.Like we’re figuring out how to act around each other after all this time. Maybe Riley’s keeping her distance because she’s seen the stupid tabloid photos. Sienna Montgomery and I at that charity gala, the romantic beach walk in Malibu, the cozy coffee dates that looked spontaneous but were anything but. Our PR teams all carefully orchestrated them, but Riley doesn’t know that. Nobody does. For all she knows, I’m madly in love with America’s sweetheart.
The thought bothers me more than it should. I want to tell Riley the truth, even though the topic of Sienna and me hasn’t even come up yet. But I can’t. My contract forbids my saying anything.
We trudge through the snow to her parents’ house, and halfway there, I foolishly decide to have a little fun so I can see her smile again. I fake a dramatic slip, windmilling my arms and letting out an exaggerated yelp before dropping to one knee.
“Travis!” Riley drops the towels and rushes over, her face pale with worry. “Oh, my goodness, are you okay? Did you twist your ankle? Can you stand?”
She crouches down beside me, reaching for my arm, and the genuine concern in her eyes makes me feel like a complete jerk for a second.
I grin up at her. “Got you.”
Her jaw drops. “You—” She shoves my shoulder, hard. “Travis, you are such a, such a…”
“A what? A gentleman? A helpful neighbor? A devilishly handsome guy?” I ask as I stand up and brush the snow from my pants.
“A complete and total child,” she says with a roll of her eyes, but I can tell she’s trying hard not to laugh. “I thought you actually hurt yourself. What if you had a concussion or a broken leg or something?”
“Pretty sure I’d know if my leg was broken.”
“That’s not the point. I was genuinely worried about you.”
“Were you now? Didn’t you say you would leave me here in the snow if I slipped and fell?”
She plants a hand on her hips. “I said I wouldn’t carry you back. There’s a difference.”
“Is there really?”
