I fly off the couch, legs tangling in the blanket, cheeks hot and hair a mess as I scramble for my phone. I don’t recognize the number, but I answer it anyway, all the while not able to look anywhere near the vicinity of Greg.
What the hell was I doing?!
“Hello?” I answer, cradling the phone between my shoulder and my ear as I reach for Tucker next. But Greg hops up and beats me to it, reaching inside to grab my grandson and cradle him to his vast chest.
Our eyes meet then, one of his hands holding the back of Tucker’s head while the other balances him, and he quietly soothes him, bouncing him a bit and rubbing his back.
Tucker quiets.
The air thickens.
I tear my eyes away.
“Hello, you there?” A deep voice says on the other end, and I wonder if I’ve blacked out, if whoever called me has been talking this entire time and I just didn’t notice.
“Yes, I’m here. I’m sorry, who is this?”
A chuckle, low and throaty. “It’s Samuel.”
The blood rushes from my face. “Samuel?”
I peek at Greg, who’s now staring at me with fire in his eyes, his body tense and rigid.
“One second,” I say into the receiver.
I make my way through the dining room and out the back sliding glass door, thankful for the coolness of the night once it washes over me, thankful to be out from under Greg’s gaze.
His touch.
Fuck, what was I doing?!
“Hi, Samuel,” I say when I catch my breath. “I… uh… how did you get my number?”
He laughs. “Well, I hope you don’t think I’m a creep, but I snuck a glance at your intake form after you left the stadium yesterday. I know it’s a bit forward, but I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you.”
It should make me blush. It should fill my stomach with butterflies and make me squeal with delight.
This is what I should want.
Someone who isn’t Greg.
“That’s sweet,” I say, and then smack my forehead for how stupid it sounds.
“I’d like to take you on a date, Amanda.”
I gulp, eyes skirting inside to where Greg is carefully putting Tucker back into his playpen.
My chest squeezes as I close my eyes, cursing myself for letting it go as far as I did when I know we can never be together — not like that.
Not without hurting the most important person in the world to me.
Samuel is a sweet guy. Cocky, yes, but sweet. And he’s attractive — at least, to any sane woman who hasn’t been spending all her free time with Greg Weston.
And perhaps the biggest perk of all is that he doesn’t even know my son.
I need to do this.
I need to do whatever it takes to kick my fascination with Greg.
“Okay,” I breathe, trying to smile. “I’d… love that,” I manage.
“Wonderful. How about Friday?”
“Friday is great.”
“Text me your address and I’ll pick you up. Seven, okay?”
I nod. “Mm-hmm.”
And then with a slew of pleasantries I don’t care to tune into or be present for, we end the call, and I run my hands back through my hair on a frustrated breath.
My stomach turns as I make my way back inside, not wanting to face Greg after what happened. I no more than make it into the living room when my phone pings in my hand, a text from David coming through.
Julia isn’t feeling well. We’re heading back. Should be to you in about thirty.
I send back a thumbs up emoji, and then gently set my phone down on the coffee table, finally meeting Greg’s gaze.
“They’re on their way back,” I croak. “You should probably get going.”
I regret the words the moment they leave me, especially with how Greg can’t hide his disappointment in them. But I don’t know what else to say without acknowledging what happened.
And I can’t do that.
Neither of us can.
Greg sniffs, nodding, and then starts gathering his things. “Do you want help cleaning up around here?”
“No, no. I’ve got it.”
I cross my arms over my chest, a million words I want to say scrambling in my head as I watch him put his shoes on.
He pauses at the door. “What did Samuel want?”
“He wants to take me on a date.”
Greg’s nose flares, his gaze dropping to the floor before he looks right at me, right through me.
I see everything he wants to say. I feel it, like we’re connected on a level past verbal communication, like without so much as a whisper I know exactly what he wants me to know.
He doesn’t want me to go on the date.
But he knows I will.
He understands why.
But it kills him all the same.
In a force of nature, he somehow manages a smile, fighting down the storm raging inside him.
“Looks like we’ll be checking that part of the list off, then.”
I try to smile back, but it feels as weak as my heartbeat.