Swing (Landry Family 2)

Wincing at her taking my comment the wrong way, I try to backtrack. “Maybe I can change them.”

“Do what you want. I’ll have it at the front desk tomorrow.”

“Do you mean that?” I grin.

“What?”

“For me to do what I want?”

She laughs, knowing where I’m headed with this. “No, no, I don’t. I get in at eight thirty. You can pick it up any time after that.”

“I’ll see you around eight thirty then. I’ll bring you coffee. How do you like it?”

“I don’t.”

“Oh, I promise you will.”

The little intake of breath brushes through the phone, and every cell in my body feels it. I can see her face, the pink of her cheeks matching the shirt she wore yesterday. Her long lashes widening as she unmistakably reads the innuendo I threw in there. Before I know it, my breath is as ragged as hers.

“Lincoln . . .”

“Meet me tonight. If you don’t want me going to your house, that’s fine. But meet me somewhere.”

“Where?” she nearly whispers.

“Riffle Steakhouse.”

“We aren’t having dinner. It’s me giving you the wallet back.”

“It’s me thanking you.”

“If you want it tonight, no dinner.”

“Oh, I want it tonight,” I smirk, choosing to just lay it out there. “I’ve wanted it since I saw you, and I’m fairly certain you do too. I will say, I like the way you negotiate,” I crack.

“What do you mean?”

“They always want dinner first.”

She scoffs. “You are too much, Landry.”

“Have you heard of Freeman Park? It’s on 57th,” I ask.

“Yes.”

“Be there in an hour.”

“Okay.”

I start to click off my phone, my body on high-alert, when I hear her try to speak.

“Hey—” she starts to say, but I hang up before she can change her mind.

Danielle

MY CAR SLIDES BENEATH A large oak tree with a placard about feeding the Freeman Park wildlife. From this angle, I can see most of the greenery tucked away behind a row of oversized evergreens. The park is almost nestled inside the trees, fields of green expanding for acres. There are little tables and sheds and play equipment sprinkled throughout.

I climb out of the car and look for him. After a few long minutes, my gaze falls on a picnic table near a little pond in the back corner. A man sits on the top, his back to me. It isn’t just a man though. With a grey sweatshirt stretched across a broad, thick back, a few strands of sandy brown hair peeking out from below a purple baseball cap, it’s Lincoln. It has to be. No one else can look that delectable, that unintentionally sexy.