Beauty and the Baller(33)

“Of course,” I say. “Thank you for the offer. It’s very kind of you.”

“You’re very welcome,” she says in a syrupy tone, then walks past us.

“Not on my life will I ask her,” I mutter.

Ronan’s lips curl. “But she was so nice. And so were you.”

“Southern girls are born being nice, but they don’t always mean it. Now, if she’d said ‘bless your heart,’ we might have had a tussle. Everyone knows what that means. It’s pity with a dash of condescension.”

“I learn more and more every day,” he murmurs.

“How did the ranch lady from the Roadhouse work out for you?” I ask, reaching for normal before I bring up the job.

“Awesome. We roped some cows. Rode some stallions.”

“Never called her, huh?”

“Nope.”

A bell pings for the class change, and there’s a rush of other faculty in the office and down a breezeway adjacent to us that connects other offices.

My breath hitches when Andrew enters, then walks toward us, his head down, papers in his hands. My eyes eat him up: the short dirty-blond hair, the square chin, the dimple that softens his angular jawline. He’s wearing slacks and a striped dress shirt, his shoulders broad, his build lean and muscled.

His lips quirk up in a familiar way—one he used to do when he was amused—and my chest feels a rush of emotion, most of which I can’t define. My hand reaches out and clutches Ronan’s arm. He covers it with his hand and gives me a squeeze.

“Don’t let him see you sweat,” he whispers.

“Is that another Chinese military strategy?” I swallow thickly, not moving. Not yet. I haven’t laid eyes on him in almost nine years. I skipped our five-and ten-year reunions, and when I registered Sabine for her classes this year, we came early and left immediately. I mean, I knew I’d probably run into him at some point at a school function, but I pushed it to the back of my mind. I had other things to focus on.

Someone calls his name, and Andrew glances up, sees me, and stops in his tracks. His mouth opens. “Nova?” Shock colors his voice. He flicks his eyes at Ronan, his brow furrowing, then back at me. “What are you doing here?”

Sure, I’m a confident girl; I’ve supported myself in the city, I made friends, I worked my ass off, and I lived happily. I fell in and out of infatuation several times—a surface feeling, mostly with athletes, those easy-come-easy-go relationships.

But . . .

He’s the reason I hid a small piece of myself from every man. There’s no trust in my heart, and a part of me picked risky relationships on purpose, knowing they’d end the way I expected, and as long as I knew it was coming, then I wouldn’t be devastated. I’m not surprised Zane’s eyes wandered and found a flight attendant. I always knew he wasn’t permanent because I wasn’t permanent. I’ve never loved anyone but Andrew.

He comes closer, rising amazement on his face, and I inch closer to Ronan.

The last time I spoke to Andrew, he’d shown up at my dorm room at NYU, reeking of alcohol, his face haggard. It was a week before his wedding, and he’d gotten on a plane and flown to New York. He came inside and begged me to come back. I’m lost without you. I miss you. I love you. I need you. I made one mistake. Can’t you forgive me? You’re the one I’m supposed to be with. You’re my sunshine. We can’t let them keep us apart . . .

We sat on my bed while he made his case. We’d grown up together, he’d loved me from the moment of our first kiss, he’d carved our names in the oak tree at the front of the school, he’d give up his inheritance, we were meant to be forever and ever . . .

He looked deep into my eyes, crying as he got on his knees and asked me to take a chance on him, to come back to UT, and we’d find a way to figure out the baby and Paisley.

I said yes.

And when I woke up the next day, he was gone. Betrayed. Twice.

I still can’t find my voice, and Ronan takes over, his voice curt. “She’s the new English teacher and my PA.”

Then he’s sweeping me out of the office and into a busy hallway.

I wrestle with my feelings, leaning against his hard frame, and I straighten, but he tugs me back. “Not yet. He might have come out. Let him know you don’t care—even though you obviously do.”

A long exhale comes from my chest. How on earth am I going to do this job with Andrew here?

Keeping me next to him, Ronan maneuvers us through a crowd of teenagers. All eyes are on us, the students giving him appreciative, admiring glances and calling out, “Coach Smith! Hey! Good morning! Great game!”

We make it through the throng to an empty area, and I focus on what’s front and center.

After clearing my throat, I ask, “How unhappy are you that I got this job? If you wanted someone else, you could have spoken up in his office.”

He doesn’t reply.

We’ve turned a corner in the hall, and he stops at a door, opens it quickly, and tugs me inside.

I look around at the . . . storage closet. It’s shadowy and small, about ten feet by ten, with shelves stacked with paper towels, hand sanitizer, pencils, pens, paper . . . “Nice office. Where do I put my desk, Coach?”

“It’s Ronan when we’re alone,” he says gruffly.