Um. Yeah.

  And maybe he wasn’t thinking about us. Maybe he was just being a good guy, asking questions, showing an interest.

  Stay grounded, Ellie. Take your time. You have the whole night. You have the drive home to sort through this storm of feelings.

  I fight off my romantic fantasies and stick to brass tacks. “Absolutely, it was a great week, and I feel super relieved that I’ve decided what to do about Fabio’s List. The interview’s been weighing on me.”

  “Hmm,” he murmurs, like he’s weighing the interview too. I steal a quick glance at the passenger. His jaw is set tight, his gaze staring straight ahead. Something’s on his mind, and I wish I knew what. Several seconds later, he says, “Got it. Makes sense. That was a big moment then with the whole…moving on.”

  “Yes,” I say, relieved at last. Finally, we’re on the same wavelength again. The one where we talk freely about work and the past and changes. The one where he understands what I’m trying to do with my life here in Los Angeles. Maybe this is a big moment for us too—where we connect over the way we understand each other. “And life’s big moments call for songs.”

  He arches a brow, then like he’s maybe resetting from a few seconds ago, he nods. “I’m down with that. So you want a tune to celebrate your whole new life here and all?”

  Yes, he gets me. “That sounds perfect. But what about you? Do you have a celebration song?”

  “Sure. When I score a touchdown at home, The Mercenaries play Stone Zenith’s ‘He’s One Badass Dude.’”

  I crack up. “You do know Stone wrote that about his husband?”

  Gabe scoffs. “And his hubs is a badass dude. And so am I.”

  “Fair point.”

  Gabe pats the dashboard. “What’s your tune? Let’s blast it.”

  “Ten-Speed Rabbit’s ‘I Got This,’” I say. A great song by a fabulous English group.

  “I don’t know that song or the band,” he says.

  “Allow me to introduce you, then. The lead singer was my friend Veronica’s first client, so I gotta support my girls. ‘I Got This’ is definitely my walk-up song. It’s the ultimate girl-power tune.” I point to my phone, excited to share something I love with him, like the bedtime story the other night. “Playlist two.”

  He hits the song. The lyrics blast through the air, lifting me higher. Don’t worry about me, Doing it my way, My girls and me, We’ve got a plan.

  He turns introspective.

  “Sing with me,” I urge as I rock out to the tune’s epic chorus that my friends and I know by our karaoke hearts. I’ve got this, I’ve got this.

  But he flashes me a brief smile, then returns to watching the houses pass by. I try to keep the mood upbeat, belting out the anthem as we go.

  As the closing notes fade, we pull up to my parents’ home. I feel energized again, from the song, from the conversation, from the possibility of talking to him tonight. On the ride home perhaps. Or maybe at my house. I’ll use this time at the party to sift through my feelings and figure out what to say exactly.

  When I cut the engine, I stare at the two-story white house with green shutters and planters bursting with flowers.

  Whoa.

  Butterflies flap in my chest then crawl up my throat.

  I’m going into my childhood home with the guy down the street. This is so surreal. This was my high school fantasy.

  Now it’s my reality. But…not really. It’s still just a dating challenge until I tell him my heart.

  I don’t want to play this game anymore.

  I resolve to be real. To be truly vulnerable once again. And why wait till the end of the night? I could say something right now. Tell him I don’t want to go our separate ways.

  I turn to him. “Gabe—”

  But he’s already leaning across the console, brushing a chaste kiss to my cheek, shutting me up. “It’s our last night. We’ve been practicing all week. Like the song says, you’ve got this,” he says, then pats the dashboard and jumps out of the car.

  Resolute.

  Confident.

  He’s a badass dude strutting away from scoring a touchdown, ready for the next play.

  When all I can hear is Last night, last night, last night.

  Everything I was going to say lodges in my throat as he comes around to the driver’s side and opens my door.

  I step out, bewildered and off-balance.

  Was that heavy-handed reminder necessary? And in that cocky tone too.

  Grabbing the gift I bought for Aunt Tilly from the back seat, along with the lemonade for Mom, I head up the steps, aching everywhere.

  I was foolishly hoping he might want more too.

  But this was only ever a fling.

  When my mom sweeps open the door, I give her a big and necessary hug. It’s good to be home. It’s good to see her especially as I hold back the knot of emotions in my throat.

  25

  CROQUET OOMPH

  Gabe

  This sucks.

  I nurse a cup of pink lemonade and tap a purple ball with a wooden mallet.

  The ball rolls painfully slowly as my dad, alongside Ellie’s, flips beef and veggie burgers on the grill.

  My mom chuckles then shakes her head. “Gabe, hon, you have to hit it harder.”

  “Surely, you can put some more oomph into lawn croquet,” Ellie’s mom encourages.

  “Normally, you’re such a pro at this,” Tilly weighs in.

  Gee. Anyone else want to comment on my shitty technique?

  I don’t need advice. I know the reason for my poor performance. I’ve been distracted by my sullen mood.

  It’s not Mom’s fault. Or Mrs. Snow’s. Or Tilly’s.

  Hell, it’s hardly Ellie’s fault.

  It’s fucking fate’s fault.

  Nope. That’s wrong. It’s my fault.

  I can’t even fashion a smart comeback. Instead, I mutter, “Thanks for the tips.” I head to the purple ball, which is next to Ellie. She smells like cherry blossoms. That sucks too.

  She smells too wonderful. Too much like my future.

  But she’s not mine. Hell, she never was. And tonight she’s simply my…fake date?

  Fuck. I don’t even know what she is anymore, except…she’s moving on.

  That I know for sure. She’s made that abundantly clear in the last twenty-four hours. She is an independent woman, and she needs no man.

  Just as I was gearing up to maybe ask if she wanted to make a go of things after training camp, to date for real when I return…Boom.

  She drops the mic on her whole boss-lady-moving-on soliloquy.

  More power to her and blah, blah, blah. But there’s no room for romance in her work-all-day/be-single-all-night plans.

  That song she blasted was an exclamation point punctuating her speech about business and new life stages and moving the fuck on.

  “Ooh! Look at that one!” Tilly hoots. I blink, then reconnect with the game in time to see her green ball roll through an arch as she makes her shot.

  “You go, Aunt Tilly!” Ellie shouts, then she nudges me, giving me a bright smile. “Good one, right?”

  “Yeah, great,” I mutter.

  She tilts her head, looks at me, clearly worried. “Are you okay?” she whispers. She sounds just like a girlfriend when her boyfriend’s being a moody jerk at a party.

  Well, the last part is true.

  “I’m fine,” I mumble, but I can’t shake my attitude.

  “You don’t seem like yourself,” she says, trying again in a low voice.

  “I’m fine,” I repeat.

  She tugs gently on my forearm, guiding me away from the game, toward the side of the yard. I follow her because of course I follow her. I’d fucking follow her anywhere. And that’s the goddamn problem.

  I’d chase her, I’d beg her, I’d go wherever she went.

  I’m crazy for her, but she’s already gone, belting out I don’t need anyone songs and celebrating her romance-free life.

  And I can’t, I just fucking can’t, ruin shit for her by telling her I fell for her in only four nights.

  I can’t stand to hear her say, Oh Gabe, that’s nice and all, but I came to Los Angeles to be free.

  So here at the edge of the lawn, I just stare past her.

  She tries to catch my eye, angling her chin just so, to get me to look at her. “Are you sure? Because you don’t seem okay.”

  Gritting my teeth, I shovel a hand through my hair. I feel like a bomb’s ticking in my chest.

  No, Ellie, I’m not okay. I’m not okay at all because I want to break our deal in spectacular fashion. I want to take you into my arms and smother you in kisses and keep you for all the nights.

  But you want to just…move on.

  And if I stay outside at the party with her, I’ll blurt out all these painful feelings that are clawing at me.

  Feelings that she doesn’t have the time or space for.

  I thrust my mallet at her, and she takes it automatically. “Sorry, sweetheart. My agent called earlier, and I’ve got some stuff on my mind about the football season. It’s nothing. But I’m going to take a walk and clear my head.”

  She frowns. “Oh.” Then she clears her expression, putting on a small smile. She’s a good actress, but I’m pretty sure it’s fake—like this whole week has been. “I’ll be here,” she says.

  I can barely hear her because I’m already walking away.

  Thirty minutes later, I’m a little less annoyed thanks to some air and a walk, but I’m not any happier. Hell, I’m both sadder and angrier, mostly at myself for falling for a woman who’s so clearly unavailable.

  Who told me she was unavailable.

  But my stew of feelings doesn’t matter. This is not my birthday. This is not my party. I need to get my act together so I can handle the rest of the night.

  When I trudge up the steps to Ellie’s parents’ home and push open the door, I catch sight of Ellie pacing in the kitchen, phone pressed to her ear, her back to me.

  “Great. Email me the details,” she says.

  There’s a pause.

  “Yes, Sidney, I think it can help other women learn from my experiences too,” she says.

  She’s talking to the producer of that documentary about her ex, and my frustration ramps up again.

  Then she says goodbye and turns down the hall. “I said yes to the interview, Mom.”

  Like James Bond, I creep across the hardwood and listen in to her private conversation with her mother. It’s like sticking my finger in a fire, but I do it anyway. I need to know where she’s at. I want to be certain that my instincts in the car were right.

  “Are you sure, sweetie?”

  “Absolutely. I was just protecting myself when they first called. Not dealing with the past. But this is how I can put it behind me. That’s what I’ve been trying to figure out this past week. How to put it behind me. And this will give me some closure.”

  “Then I support you,” her mom says.

  “Thanks, Mom. These last few days have given me a lot of clarity.”

  That seals the deal. This last week was everything we’d agreed it would be—a week and nothing more. I’m the fool who got caught up in her.

  I close my eyes and slump down.

  Somehow, I make it through the rest of the evening. But when the party winds down, and Ellie’s grabbing her things to leave, she pulls me aside by the front door.

  “Hey. You don’t seem like yourself,” she says quietly, then she adds, “Maybe we can talk on the way home?”

  Her voice rises with hope.

  But no fucking way.

  I can’t be alone with her in the car when she breaks my heart again.

  Like I’m on the field, and I’ve been swarmed by the secondary and have to scramble to get away, I think on my feet. Fast.

  With a big, fat yawn, I say, “I’m exhausted. I’m going to crash at my parents’ house. But hey, this was fun. Glad you got to take your good guy challenge this week. Glad it worked out for you.”

  I drop a careful kiss to her forehead, and I get the hell out of there before she can slice off another piece of my heart.

  SUNDAY

  No Caramel Lattes for You. Or Pancakes Either.

  26

  MY BIG CHANCE

  Ellie

  The people-watching at Edge & Plow on the main drag in Venice is top-notch on a Sunday morning. I enjoy the view from an outside table, sipping a cup of tea, my pup in my lap.

  Over there, a gal my age sporting a messy bun and cut-off shorts shows pics—I presume—on her phone to her friends. They’re all dressed in the ragtag attire of a morning-after post-mortem.

  My heart clutches and I look away.

  A few tables over from me, a man with a neat beard excitedly tells his buddies all about last night with like, the sexiest guy ever.

  Good for him, but I frown.

  There could not be a more inspiring scene for my writing soul. This is the kind of background I could see in an episode of The Dating Games.

  And yet, I’m too sad.

  I’m alone. I’m not here with my New York girlfriends. Veronica has returned to Manhattan with Milo. Hazel has taken off for Europe.

  I’m not here with my Los Angeles friends either.

  I lift my black tea—because I can’t indulge in caramel iced lattes every day—take a sip, then set the cup on the iron table.

  Even if Maddox or Rachel were here, what would I say? The guy I was falling for just walked away from me.

  I heave a sigh, shoulders slumped. Gigi looks up, concern in her big eyes as her ears go to full bat-style.

  My throat tightens and I stroke her soft head. “Of course, you’re my friend too,” I tell her. She leans into my hand, savoring the pets.

  Then, I finish the tea, bus my table, and leave. I walk my girl to our new home, trying desperately to look forward to tomorrow.

  To my big day, my big week, my big chance.

  But it’s harder than it was less than a week ago when I pulled into town.

  27

  IT WAS OBVIOUS

  Gabe

  As I towel off from the shower, the scent of eggs and pancakes floats up the stairs of my parents’ house and wafts into the bathroom.

  Damn, I’ve missed the smell of Dad’s cooking. Smells like home.

  I dry off and then track down the pair of gym shorts and fresh T-shirt I left behind last time I spent the night in my old bedroom, aka the guest room. Still feels like mine even though it’s done up in pretty whites and blues now—gender neutral for guests, Mom says—and it no longer has any posters of my sports idols or favorite rock stars on the wall.

  Shame.

  I pad downstairs, determined to put yesterday out of mind. That’s a skill I’ve honed from decades as an athlete. Mental skills were always my thing way back in high school. I could block out the world. I damn well plan to do that now.

  When I reach the kitchen, Dad is plating some scrambled eggs and pancakes. The welcoming aroma of fresh coffee curls through the air.

  Yeah, this might help me forget Ellie too. C’mon, coffee. Work your magic.

  “Smells delish, Dad,” I say.

  He flashes me a smile. “Thanks. I hope your mom likes it. She should be back from her morning walk in a few minutes.”

  I furrow my brow. “Wait. I don’t get any?”

  He chuckles, setting a hand on his belly. “You thought this was for you?”

  Well, yeah. “Um, I was hoping so,” I say sheepishly.

  He arches a salt-and-pepper eyebrow. “After the way you acted last night?”

  I flinch. “What?”

  Dad shoots me a you can’t fool me kid stare. “Gabe,” he chides.

  I shrug helplessly as I lean against the kitchen counter. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  He turns the heat down on the stove. “You were kind of a dick at Tilly’s party.”

  I snap my gaze to him, lips parting in protest. “I was not,” I say. But I know that’s a bald-faced lie. From his look, Dad didn’t buy it either.

  I sigh heavily. “Shit. It was that obvious?”

  He nods once. “You kind of huffed and puffed your way around the place.”

  I drag a hand over my chin. “Did Tilly notice?”

  “I hope not. But I bet Ellie did. Seemed she was the one you were a jerk to.”

  Does he have X-ray vision? “How did you know?”

  He laughs, eyes rolling. “Gabe, when you played croquet, you were all broody-faced,” he says, adopting a sour expression.

  I wince, knowing he’s right.

  “And then later, you were just kind of…” He pauses, perhaps to search for words, and I catch the sound of the front door before he finishes, “Short. Clipped.”

  I drop my head into my hand, covering my face in embarrassment. “That’s bad.”

  “What’s bad?”

  I look up at the question as my mom comes in. She’s not alone. She’s with Ellie’s aunt Tilly. Of course. The two ladies are morning walking partners.

  I waste no time with justifications. Dad was right. “I’m sorry I was a moody jerk last night,” I tell the guest of honor.

  Tilly tilts her head, her gaze unsure. “About our croquet tips?” she asks, then laughs, patting my shoulder. “Don’t worry. We love trash talking you. It’s too fun to beat up on a pro baller.”

  I smile, digging her easygoing style. Her quick forgiveness. She’s like Ellie—warm and inviting.

  The mere thought of Ellie tugs on my heart, but I’ve got to fix what I messed up with my family before anything else.

  “No, Tilly. I mean, I was kind of pissy all night at your party,” I say, then quickly correct myself. “I wasn’t kind of pissy. I just was moody, and that’s not cool. I’m sorry.”

  She squeezes my arm. “It’s fine, sweetie. We can’t be perfect all the time. I barely even noticed.”