Filfthy(62)

I stare off to the side, trying to imagine what that might feel like, and I find myself struggling to breathe.

“There’s your answer.” Rue slaps the table.

“I feel like you’re mad at me, Aunt Rue . . .”

“I’m not mad. I just love you so much, sweetie, I don’t want to see you get hurt. When I look at you, I see my little string bean with braces and glasses and curly hair that sticks out at the sides.” She wears a warm, melancholy smile. “I want you to stay young and innocent forever. I know. That’s selfish of me.”

“He’s a good guy, Aunt Rue. Maybe he wasn’t always. But he is now. You have to trust my judgment.”

She leans forward, resting her head on her hand, brows lifted. “I suppose you have a point.”

“Whatever he did in his past, whatever version of the truth you’re hanging onto,” I say, wishing so badly I could tell her what he told me. But I can’t. It would be a violation of our unspoken trust. “All I ask is that you let it go.”

“I’ll let it go as long as he doesn’t hurt my niece.” Rue clucks her tongue.

“Fair enough.”

“All right, well, I’m sure you’ve had a long day.” She pats the table and looks at the clock, which reads seven-thirty. “I’m going down for the night. See you in the morning, sweet pea.”

“Goodnight, Aunt Rue.”





Chapter 28





Zane



“Everybody here now?” Coach Roberts yells above the low drone of a bunch of meat-headed football players gathered in an enormous conference room at team headquarters Tuesday afternoon.

The seat beside me is empty, and I pull out my phone to send a quick text to Delilah. We’re supposed to start Game of Thrones tonight, and I need to remind her to pick up a pizza from the grocery store.

We’re like a couple in many ways.

But we’re not.

The best way to describe things lately is that we’re both comfortable. No one’s trying too hard. Egos are set to the side. We’re just hanging out. Fucking like rabbits. And making each other laugh.

In fact, I can’t even remember the last time we argued about anything bigger than pizza toppings or what show to watch on Netflix next.

Delilah’s a cool girl, and I’m going to miss the hell out of her when she’s gone.

A body fills the chair beside me followed by a gush of perfume. Whipping my head to the side, my blood runs cold when I see a smiling Carissa scooting closer.

“Hey there.” Her lips spread wide, and she has the audacity to place her hand on my forearm.

I glance up where her father sits a few spots down at the head of the table.

“What are you doing here?” I keep my voice down.

She shrugs like it’s no big deal. “Just had lunch with my father. It ran late, so I decided to tag along so he’d be on time.”

How dutiful.

I turn away from her, toward Kai and Weston at my right, and I insert myself into their conversation.

Carissa’s finger jabs into my side. Releasing an inaudible groan, I turn back to face her.

“So, I was thinking,” she says. “The Kick Off party is in a few weeks. Do you want me to wear a red dress? Or white? White is more summery, but red is ridiculously sexy. I’ll wear whatever you want, babe.”

My teeth grit. She’s taking this agreement to a whole new level already.

“Wear whatever you want,” I mutter, turning back to the guys.

She taps me again. “Red or white, Zane. Pick one. You need to be involved in the planning of our big date.”

My hard stare snaps toward her. “Big date?”

Carissa grins wider than a child going to Disney World. “I’m so excited. We’re going to have a blast. And I have something special planned for us afterwards, so-”

“Whoa. No, no, no.” I glance up to make sure her dad isn’t listening in. “I didn’t agree to anything after. We’re going to the party for a couple hours. Then this whole thing is done. You promised.”

“The party goes from eight to midnight,” she says. “We’ll be there the entire time. I think it’d be in poor taste for the star running back and the owner’s daughter to skip out early, don’t you think?”

“I’m not going anywhere with you afterwards,” I say through gritted teeth.

“Bad idea, Zane.”

“Excuse me?”

“This is my night. You promised me one date.”

“Yeah. The party is the date.”

She swats her hand across my shoulder. “The party is a professional obligation. The real date doesn’t start until the last guest leaves.”

Goddamn it.