Page 129

“Not yet,” I say.

He smiles. Then he clicks to the movie channel instead of more game film.

“We don’t have to finish this movie,” he says. “I’ve just seen enough football for one day.”

“I can go,” I offer.

I don’t want him dragging the night on for my sake.

“I’m good with you staying. Don’t want Winona to think you rushed home.”

“Right,” I agree. “Better for us to have spent more time together since we’ve got eyes on us.”

“I like the way you think, Carter,” Marcus says.

And I don’t stop him from saying my name, even though it makes me want to scoot closer and wrap my arms around him to tell him I was wrong about so many things—mostly his heart.

I’m too gone to resist him. And I’m too tired to talk myself out of feeling what I’m feeling for him. My feelings for Marcus Delaney are like horses, pent up for too long in the stall. Finally free to roam the pasture. Do they graze lazily, appreciating the breeze and gorgeous view? No, they gallop and whinny and rear up on haunches, uncontained and thunderous, shaking the earth, refusing to be bridled.

He hits play and settles back onto the couch, close enough that I could lean in and rest my head on his shoulder, but far enough away that I’d have to make the effort to touch him. He’s just out of reach—in every way that matters.

His hair is mussed from the way he shoved his hands through it when rewatching a play, trying to develop strategy like the leader he is. His eyes are soft. He’s tired too.

I pull a throw blanket off the back of the couch and wrap it around myself.

I focus on the movie, but my thoughts get fuzzy. Images of Marcus fill my drowsy mind, blending with the movie. I yawn and my eyes drift shut. I don’t fight the sleepiness. I’ll just get up and drive home in a minute.

I don’t know how long I doze for, but I wake, ready to steal away without bothering Marcus. He probably went to bed. He’s not on the couch.

A light is coming in from around the curtains and more seeps in from the hallway.

The sound of men’s voices carries through from another room. Who is that? And what time is it? My phone is still in the kitchen, so I stretch and get off the couch.

Once I’m standing, I realize it’s light out. Really light—like, daytime light.

I spent the night! At Marcus Delaney’s house!

No.

No. No. No.

Winona is going to think … I’ll just tell her I was too tired to drive.

But I’ve got to get out of here.

The sound of laughter filters in from the kitchen.

My phone is in the kitchen.

I can’t leave it here.

I carefully tiptoe in my stocking feet toward the kitchen, lingering just to the side of the doorway. Treyvon is here, sitting on a stool at the island. His back is toward me.

I gesture to Marcus, pointing at the counter behind him and making my hand into a phone and putting it to my ear. His face contorts.

Note to self: never play charades with Marcus Delaney.

Treyvon stops talking and pivots on his stool.