The Coaching Hours(15)
I owe him that much.
He’s leaning against a wooden countertop when I walk into the room, that white coffee mug still grasped in his large, mammoth hands.
“Hey.” He nods in my direction. “Feel better?”
“Somewhat human, thanks.”
“You should drink this.” He holds another cup toward me and I take it, bashful now that he’s still being so nice.
He should have kicked me out by now, and I wonder why he hasn’t. I’ve been nothing but a pain in his ass. When will he have had enough?
I sip on the ice water in my hands, grateful for the liquid, which feels wonderful sliding down my throat. I watch him from above the rim of the cup. He’s not creepy at all, despite his size. Tall and built, I can tell he works out. Maybe he plays intramural sports? Goes to the gym? He does something for sure—his arms are way too toned for him to be sitting around doing nothing.
His green eyes never stray from my face, laugh lines appearing at the corners, wrinkling when I plop down in his kitchen chair with a loud sigh.
“I know I’ve already said this several times, but I really am sorry about all this.” I pause, fiddling with the plastic cup in my hands.
“Right place, right time.”
“Yes.” I bow my head, staring down at the cup, reading the screen-printed label on its side. Raise my eyes, shooting him a crooked, wane smile. “You don’t even know my name. I don’t know yours.”
There’s a long silent pause.
“Elliot.”
“Elliot,” I repeat. “What’s your last name?”
He shifts against the counter, stuffing one hand in the pocket of his sweatpants. “St. Charles.”
Elliot St. Charles, ooh la la.
It’s an awesome name I let linger in my mind, turning it around and around, romanticizing it. St. Charles.
Saint Charles.
Charles.
Saint.
“Saint—that’s a nice way to think of you, since you’ve rescued me twice in one week.” I say it softly into the confines of his tiny kitchen; it’s so tiny, there’s barely room for both of us at this small table. “I’m not normally the kind of girl who needs rescuing, let alone this many times within the span of a few short days.”
“Saint.” His expression is impossible to read, his mouth…those lips…an impassive line. “I don’t know if that’s how I’d describe myself.”
“But it seems to suits you.”
Those gorgeous lips twitch. “How would you know?”
My butt wiggles in the chair. “First, you came over to console me in the library.”
“That’s because you stole my spot.”
“I did? How?” What on earth is he talking about?
“That’s the table I sit at when I study.”
I laugh.
Wince because ouch, that hurts my head.
“I’d say I owe it back to you then.”
His nod is slow, deliberate. “I’ll allow it.” Sips from his mug. “What else have I done to earn the nickname?”
“You brought me to your house to keep me safe,” I explain. “A complete stranger. I could have been a complete psycho.”
God, what if I’d puked?
“I could have been a complete psycho, too. Maybe I still am.”
My face flushes red hot, a blush so deep I feel it move from the top of my head to the tips of my toes.
“You are not.”
“How would you know?”
“I opened your cabinets—you don’t have any medications.”
We both laugh, and when he sits down across from me at the small wooden table, I can’t stop the heat warming up my entire body.
His large wide shoulders and smooth exposed skin.
“I might have overstepped my boundaries, but I couldn’t leave you at that party. You were way too drunk.”
Yes, he could have.
He totally could have, and he also could have taken advantage of me, of the fact that I was three sheets to the wind drunk. Trashed. Wasted. Blacked out. Unconscious.
But Elliot didn’t.
He could have done all sorts of terrible things to me and he chose to…keep me safe. What a nice freaking guy.
“Elliot, I’m sure you’ve seen your fair share of drunk chicks about to pass out at parties. What was it that made you leave with me?”
He stares toward the window. Purses his lips. “I knew why you were getting trashed.” Turns to face me. “And trust me, I was trying to get you to your house, but you couldn’t tell your left from your right.”
Taking me home, back to Dad’s would have been a blessing and a curse.
I briefly imagine Elliot taking me to my father’s house, dumping me on the front stoop. Ringing the doorbell and having Dad answer, most likely in his robe, furious.
At me.
At Elliot, because he no doubt would have misinterpreted the entire situation.
Elliot studies me, an easy grin brightening his face, white teeth way too perfect. He’s altogether too alert, way too cheerful considering he spent the entire night on an uncomfortable-looking couch. I give it a glance over my shoulder—no way did his tall frame fit on that thing.
“You’ve only met me once.”
His chuckle is deep. “Let’s just say I have a stronger moral compass than most of my friends. I’d rather see you safely home than take the chance and leave you to the wolves, to the jockholes.”
“Jockholes? That’s a new one.”
“You like? I made it up.”
I like. “Friends with any?”
“Most of my friends are athletes, so yeah, I’m surrounded by douchebags and jockholes.”
“Oh jeez.”
“I lived with two guys on the wrestling team for the past two years. It was a test in patience most of the time.”
“Where’d they go?”
“Graduated.”
“What year are you?”
“Technically I should have gone through commencement last year, but I declared my major too late, and there are a few classes I needed to take before graduating. And one enrichment class.”
An enrichment class—is this guy for real?
“Uh, so you’re taking that class for…?”
“Enrichment.” He casually sips his coffee while I stare at him, confused.
“Which is another word for…”
“Fun?”
Oh Lord. I’d never purposely take a class for fun—not even badminton. Okay fine, one time I took that as a gym class and had a blast, but for real, it costs a fortune just to screw around for an entire semester.
Lesson learned.
“Which class?”
“It’s a science class. It’s not required, but I think it will be beneficial.”
“I’m sure it will be.”
“You can never know enough, uh…” Uncomfortably, his sentence tapers off, missing an important piece. It’s then that I realize, I never introduced myself.
“Oh my God, Elliot, I never told you my name! I’m the worst!” I stick my hand out self-consciously. “I’m Anabelle.”
“Anabelle,” he echoes quietly. Leans back in the chair to watch me before unfolding his arms and reaching to slowly slide his palm across mine, pumping my hand once before dropping it.
Nope. Not awkward in the least.
“Anabelle. I’ve been wondering what your name was.” When his smile disappears into his mug, I dip my head and stare down at my lap, fiddling with the fabric of my jeans, biting back my own, stupid smile.
Elliot’s silent, lazy scrutiny is doing bizarre things to my already quaking insides—plus, he’s one of the good guys, which makes him even more attractive, if that’s even possible.
Unlike those assholes Eric Johnson and Rex Gunderson, who I never want to see again.
“I used to hate my name growing up. It was always so hard for me to spell, and no one gets it right.” One N, not two.
Elliot grins. “Really? I think it’s cute. Anyone ever call you Annie? Or Ana?”
“My dad sometimes. Ana Banana. Jelly Belle.”
“Huh.”
“Yeah.”
The room is awkwardly still while both of us rack our brains for something new to say.
Then, “Oh, before I forget, here.” He produces a smartphone from his pocket that looks suspiciously like mine, sending it gliding across the kitchen table in my direction. “This was in my car last night—I remembered to grab it while you were in the bathroom. It’s been beeping like crazy.”
Tucking an errant hair behind my ear as he looks on, I remove the phone from the table, palming it. Slide my thumb over the screen to unlock it, cringing when I see that my father has texted me eight times in the past twenty minutes.
Great. He obviously thinks I’m dead.
Dad: Where the hell are you?
Dad: Did you come home last night?
Dad: Anabelle, answer me goddammit.
Dad: You better be dead in a ditch somewhere.
Dad: Anabelle Juliet Donnelly
Dad: Young lady, answer your phone. You’re starting to worry Linda.
Dad: Anabelle, if you don’t text me back within ten minutes, so help me God, I’m calling the campus police and the state patrol.
Dad: Five minutes.
Hastily, I tap out a reply: Sorry Dad, just woke up. I stayed at a friend’s house last night. Too much alcohol to make it home.
He wastes no time asking questions.
Dad: Which friend?
Me: Daddy, does it matter?
Dad: Daddy? Now I know you’re up to something.
Are you trying to manipulate me by sweet-talking me? I smell bullshit. Who were you with last night? Was it a guy?