One Tiny Lie (Ten Tiny Breaths, #2)(44)

“Oh, it’s so nice to meet you, Livie. Call me Rachel,” she says with a warm, polite smile. “My, you are pretty. And so tall!”

Heat crawls up my neck. I open my mouth to thank her, but her attention has already turned back to Reagan. “And how is the dorm? Are you getting any sleep in that tiny bed? I wish they’d make them bigger. They’re not fit for people!”

As she prattles on, a snort escapes me and I quickly cover my face and pretend to cough. Somehow your daughter’s bed fits two.

Reagan answers with a broad grin. “It’s not bad. More comfortable than I had expected.”

“Okay, good. I was afraid you wouldn’t sleep well.”

“Mom, you know I’m sleeping well. I talked to you yesterday. And the day before. And the day before . . . ,” Reagan patiently says, but I catch the note of exasperation.

“I know, dear.” Rachel pats her shoulder. “I have to go now. The caterers need some direction.” With that, Reagan’s mom sails off like a wisp of smoke in the air, swift but graceful.

Reagan leans forward. “Excuse her. I’m an only child and she’s a little overprotective. And high-strung. We’re weaning her off her antianxiety medication.” In the next breath she starts to ask, “Are you hungry? Because we can go over there and—”

“Reagan!” a man’s voice booms, cutting in.

Reagan’s eyes light up and she grabs my hand. “Oh, come meet my dad!” I can barely keep up with her as she takes off toward the house at a brisk, excited pace. She’s more like her mother than she wants to admit. The only time she slows down is when Grant appears out of nowhere to hand each of us a drink. “Ladies,” he says with a curt bow, and then disappears as quickly as he came, giving Reagan a quick wink as he turns. One sip tells me it’s loaded with Jack and I’m relieved. There’s been an edge lingering at my nerves since leaving the hospital today.

Reagan continues on, cutting through a crowd of guys—grinning at them as we pass—until she reaches the covered patio area near the house, where a giant man with a gray, neatly trimmed beard and round belly—her father, I presume—stands next to Connor.

“Hi, Daddy!” Reagan squeals, leaping into his arms.

He lifts her off the ground, chuckling as she places a kiss on his cheek. “There’s my baby girl.”

I slide into Connor’s outstretched arm for a hug as I watch Reagan and her dad, a twinge of envy sparking in my chest.

“You look beautiful,” Connor murmurs, placing a chaste kiss on my lips.

“Thank you. You look great too.” And he does. He’s always dressed well, but now he’s wearing dress pants and a crisp white dress shirt. As he smiles at me with that dimpled grin, air slowly leaves my chest in relief. I’m noticing I’m more relaxed when Connor is around. He just has an air about him. Easy, calm, supportive.

This is right.

“How was the hospital today?”

I tilt my head side to side as if I’m undecided. “Good. Hard but good.”

He gives my forearm a light squeeze. “Don’t worry about it. It’ll be fine. You’ll do great.”

I force a smile as I turn back to Reagan and her father, glad that someone has confidence in me.

“How has your first month been? Nothing too wild, I hope?” Reagan’s dad asks her.

“Nope, my roommate keeps me in check.” Reagan turns to point to me. “This is Livie Cleary, Daddy.”

The man turns to regard me with kind blue eyes. He offers his hand. “Hello, Livie. I’m Robert.”

“Hi, sir . . .Robert. I’m Livie Cleary.” I fumble over my words. A nervous giggle escapes and I shake my head. “Sorry, Reagan just told you that.”

Robert chuckles. I see his eyes shift to a focal point behind me. “Oh, thank you,” he says, reaching to accept a drink.

A tall, dark figure appears to take a spot next to Robert. One with impossibly long eyelashes and piercing brown eyes that make my heart stutter. “You’re welcome,” he says politely.

Ashton is always gorgeous, even in the most basic of clothes. But tonight he has clearly respected Coach’s dress code. His hair is styled in a way that looks neat and tidy while still sexy. Instead of jeans and sneakers, he’s wearing black tailored pants and dress shoes. Instead of a threadbare T-shirt, he’s in a midnight-blue shirt, perfectly fitted and pressed. Watching him take a sip of his drink, I see the worn leather band peeking through. That’s the only thing that resembles the Ashton I’ve known up until now. He looks like he just stepped off the pages of GQ magazine.

And I don’t know if it’s because of this transformation or because I’ve finally accepted that I’m attracted to Ashton, but the discomfort that I’ve always felt around him is beginning to fade—or morph—into something entirely different and not at all unpleasant. Although still completely distracting.

Robert’s jovial voice interrupts my thoughts. “I can feel it, boys. We’ve got a winning team this year.” He slaps a large hand over his captain’s shoulder.

Ashton responds with a genuine smile, full of respect. One I’ve never seen on him before.

Turning to me, Robert says, “So, Livie, you’re one of Princeton’s newest crop along with my daughter.”