But here I am, acting like I’m eighteen again and I don’t have anything, everything, to lose.
I know once she leaves, I’ll be back to white-knuckling it through another day, trying to pass the hours while trying not to think about how much I don’t wanna do anything related to football. Like, at all. Because once the wheel inside my head starts turning, it doesn’t stop.
“Where did you sleep?” I ask.
It’s a clear bid for time. A stalling tactic. But Amelia doesn’t call me out on it.
She tilts her head toward the bedroom door. “On your couch.”
“I have a couple of other bedrooms upstairs, you know.”
“Couch was fine. Pretty cozy, as a matter of fact.” She yawns, eyes flicking over the mess that surrounds us. My face burns with shame. My housekeeper didn’t come for her usual Saturday cleaning, and it shows. The room is a fucking disaster. Piles of clothes create a veritable landmine of shit. My bedside table and dresser are cluttered with plates and cups and bowls. My half-unpacked suitcases are half-opened, vomiting their contents onto the floor.
“Does it remind you of my room back in high school?” I ask, trying for humor.
It works. Amelia chuckles softly, the sound almost as satisfying as that big belly laugh of hers I adore. “Yup. Exactly the same, only bigger.”
Our eyes meet. Hers are laughing, like she’s already anticipating the dirty joke I’m about to make.
“Want to find out how big, exactly?”
She rolls her eyes.
I scramble to think of something else to say that’ll stall her, but she’s already pulling off my hoodie, raising her arms so that the hem of her dress creeps even farther up her legs, allowing me a glimpse of milky white thighs covered in goose bumps.
“Keep the sweatshirt.” I frown. “You’re freezing.”
She pauses, arms up. “You sure?”
“Yes.”
Better that than inviting her into bed so I can wrap my body around hers and warm her up. She was always so soft. Soft everywhere, her skin and between her legs and those brown eyes too—they were always wild.
She guides the hoodie back down, smoothing it over her stomach. My chest squeezes.
“Amelia,” I say, too hungover to be mortified by the desperate note in my voice. I clear my throat. Try to clear my head. “I really am sorry I was such a fucking mess last night.”
She arches a brow. “Was?”
I’m fisting my hair in my hand again, only this time I look away, face still burning. “Yeah. I’m—things are kind of crazy right now.”
“Take care of yourself,” she repeats. Then she glances up at the room around us. The master is admittedly swanky with a two-story ceiling, a fireplace, and a massive bed that’s upholstered in sheepskin. “By the way, your house is ridiculous.”
“Ridiculous good or ridiculous bad?”
She looks back down. Looks at me. Her lips twitch. “A little of both. What were you going for? Vegas meets . . . Kevin Costner?”
“Exactly. How’d I do?”
She laughs, and something catches in my center. “It’s sexy.”
“It’s not practical, but I don’t need it to be. I’m only here during the off-season.”
“So you don’t miss it? The farm.”
“I wouldn’t say that, no. I miss my family.” I grin. “Sometimes.”
“Stop it. Your family is the best.”
“You only say that because they’re not your family.”
Her smile fades, and I realize a beat too late I’ve hit on a sore spot. Growing up the only child of a single parent, Amelia was lonely. I always thought our house of seven was pure chaos, especially when my dad was sick. But Amelia loved it.
“I’d kill to have a big family like yours,” she’d say. “You have four built-in best friends for the rest of your life. I have zero.”
Back then, my siblings felt less like best friends and more like pains in the butt. My brothers and I were hypercompetitive in football. Never mind that I was the youngest, and I felt like I had to compete for everything else too.
But as I’ve gotten older, I’ve realized Amelia was onto something.
“How’s your family? How’s Rose?” I ask, feeling a rush of warmth at the memory of Amelia’s grandmother. She was always kind and cool as hell. She’d talk with me for hours about everything and nothing—books, ideas, travel. Some of my best memories happened on her front porch, the three of us just hanging, drinking sweet tea, and shooting the shit.
“She’s eighty-one and living her best life. I want to be her when I grow up.”
“Still in that house on Macon Avenue?”
“Yup. She’s also a stoner.”
“Good for her.”
Amelia nods. “I gotta go. Hope your hangover isn’t too awful.”
They usually are these days. “Being an adult sucks.”
“I wouldn’t exactly call this”—she spins her hand in my general direction—“adult behavior.”
“Who the hell wants to adult?”
“I do. It’s not all bad, Rhett.” She looks away. “Take care, all right?”