He laughs.
I nod. “I’m sorry about your parents.”
“Cynthia has been a godsend. Brings meals over and plays with my daughter. She talks about you constantly—and about having her own grandkids.”
His shirtsleeves are rolled up, the sparse hair dark on muscled forearms. His shirt hugs the muscles of his chest, and he’s at least six-one, his stance easy and relaxed, an aura of confidence exuding from him. I recall him in school, a slew of girls hanging off his letterman jacket, a charming smile as he fought them off, never giving too much attention to one or the other. Dammit. Mama can pick them. He is sexy.
“Don’t encourage her. She’ll have us married by Christmas. Unless Cami beats her to it.” I smile.
He throws his head back and laughs, low and deep. “I’m not interested in getting married.”
“Hard divorce?”
His smile vanishes. “Worst mistake I ever made. Right after our daughter was born, Leigh, my wife, ran out on us. Said she missed being single. That was three years ago.” He tells me about the move from New Orleans after his parents passed, deciding on a fresh start. We chat about what I’m doing at Vandy, and he talks about his position as the principal and assistant baseball coach at the high school. He takes his phone out and shows me a few pictures of his dark-haired daughter and her new kitten. She’s adorable with dimples and a big smile.
“She looks like you,” I say wistfully.
“You want kids?”
I nod. “I want it all—career, kids, a big house in the country. You want more kids?”
“I love Caroline and can’t imagine my life without her, but not really.”
A waiter walks past with drinks, and I grab two—one for me and one for him—after setting our empties on the tray. He takes it with a smile, his gaze glancing over my shoulder before coming back to my face. “So who’s the big guy giving me dirty looks?”
I freeze, and he puts his hand on my shoulder. “No, don’t look. He’s behind you, blue suit, dark hair with blue glints, diamond ear studs, built like he can bench-press a few hundred pounds.”
“Devon Walsh,” I say, butterflies going crazy, recalling those last words to me.
“I thought your ex was the lawyer . . . oh, wait, that Devon Walsh?”
“Yep.” I suck down a sip of my drink, a hot feeling starting at my toes and rushing to my face.
“Something there?” He eyes me carefully, a hint of disappointment in his voice.
I exhale, thinking over the past week. “Yes. Maybe. I don’t know. We’re living together.”
His eyes widen. “You’re dating him? Holy shit. Is Cynthia trying to get me killed?”
“Not dating.” I bring him up to speed on the fire and my new roommate status, and before I realize it, I’m telling him about seeing Devon on TV in college, then Elena and Jack introducing me to him, then Cindy the spider, and the “fuck and walk away” conversation. I stare at my drink. Too much alcohol. “I can’t believe I just told you all that.”
“Ah, we’re old friends. Let it out.” Mike takes a covert glance behind me. “You said he gave you his Maserati?”
“Borrowed. Why does everyone make a big deal about that? It’s a car.” Okay, a very expensive car.
He laughs, watching a scene behind me. “He just told Cami to get out of his face. I read lips well. All teachers do.”
“You should call her, you know.”
He blushes, and I find it endearing. “She only wants one thing.”
“And it’s not a Christmas wedding.”
“Is that what you want?” he asks.
“I’m in no hurry. I just want . . .” To have the man I’m crazy about. And whatever comes after that.
“Devon?”
“Is it so obvious?” My shoulders slump.
He gives me that boyish grin that used to make me melt. “I said his name, and hearts popped out of your eyes.”
I roll said eyes. “You’re teasing me.”
He pulls on my hair, making some of the strands fall by my face. “Keep looking at me,” he says softly and takes my drink and places it on a nearby table with his. He grasps my hand and leads me to the area that’s been designated as the dance floor. We walk past where I sense Devon is, based on the way my heart is hammering and the sweat dripping down my back. The tent has woven fans spinning every few feet, but they’re not doing much to cool me off.
“What are you planning?” I whisper as Mike puts his arms around my waist and twirls me around as we dance to “I Want to Know What Love Is,” by Foreigner.
He bends his head down, eyes gleaming. “I’m a huge football fan, and the chance to mess with the Devon Walsh cannot be passed up.”
“That doesn’t make any sense.” My hands curl around his neck as we sway around other couples.