The Buy-In (Graham Brothers #1)(86)

“You came,” Pat says.

“You asked.”

His smile takes on a wicked tilt and his voice lowers. “In that case, what else can I ask for?”

“Don’t press your luck, Coach.”

The truth? Right now, Pat could ask for ANYTHING. Maybe it’s the noise of the crowd and the collective excitement. Or it could just be the culmination of living with Pat for two weeks and trying to keep the feral cat at bay. Ultimately, it doesn’t matter why. I’m a woman on the cusp.

The cusp of what? I’m not sure. All I know is in this moment, I’m as cuspy as cusp can get, the Queen of Cusptonia.

“Actually, now that you mention it … how about a kiss for luck?” Pat taps his cheek, clean-shaven for the game. It’s a good look on him, and I can’t help but wonder how his skin would feel under my fingertips. Or my lips.

I’m momentarily distracted by the way Pat can keep himself hanging on this fence with just one arm. And how the muscles in that arm bunch and flex, straining against the sleeves of his blue polo. When I drag my eyes back up to Pat’s face, his expression has dropped a little. Clearly, he misread my pause as hesitation and didn’t realize it was because his biceps pulled me into their orbit.

“If you don’t feel comfortable—” he starts to say.

“Stop talking.”

And with that, I turn Pat’s baseball cap backwards, grab his face in my hands, and proceed to make sure he can’t say another word.

My intent was a PG, maybe PG-13 kiss, full of emotion but not so much passion. Because, you know, we’re at a family event.

But I’m immediately lost to his warm, lush mouth. We always fit perfectly together, like his lips were designed as the complement to mine. I may have initiated the kiss, but Pat takes control immediately, or maybe I just gave mine up. I am completely lost to this man.

His lips move over mine like he’s mapping every curve of my mouth. My hands slide from his face to the back of his neck, just inside the collar of his shirt where his skin is smooth and warm. I feel his muscles bunch and shift, and I long to trace every single one.

It’s a kiss worthy of Kiss Cams—no, it belongs on movie theater screens with surround sound and those amazing reclining chairs.

The loudspeaker crackles to life, and an announcer clears his throat. Pat and I break apart, both breathing hard. Or maybe hardly breathing? Either way, this kiss took something out of us both.

“Just a reminder,” the cheerful announcer says, “this is a family friendly event. Please save your public displays of affection for your homes … after we win.”

The crowd goes wild at that, and Pat presses his forehead to mine, his smile like a rush of dopamine.

“And that includes under the bleachers,” the other announcer adds with a chuckle. “Come on out, you kids. Your mama is sitting right above your make-out spot.”

The crowd laughs. I bet any kids making out under the bleachers have nothing on me and Pat, even with all their raging teenage hormones.

“Well, dang. There goes my plan to drag you under the bleachers later,” Pat says, angling his head for another kiss.

Before his lips can do more than brush mine, he’s being yanked down off the fence by Chevy, who shakes his head at me, then Pat.

“Don’t make me arrest y’all for public indecency,” Chevy says. “This time, you might spend more than a night in jail.”

Pat holds up both hands, then winks at me, turning his hat back around.

“Come on, man,” Chevy says. “Time to get your head in the game. We need a win. No pressure.”

Pat’s smile only widens. “I function best under pressure. Let’s do this thing.”

I stand at the railing for a minute, watching the two of them head for their spots on the sideline. Then, feeling a little like I’m doing a walk of shame amidst all the stares and catcalls, I make my way up the bleachers. It’s more than a little awkward when I pass Kitty and the girls. Nothing like making out with someone in front of your teenage babysitter.

When I get to our row, most of the Grahams wear expressions of approval or amusement. James, of course, has a look of blank boredom. Or is that disdain? Jo is right next to Tank, who has wedged his way between Collin and Ashlee. He still has Jo in his arms, and I think even Ashlee seems to be falling under his spell.

“Can I sit with Mr. Tank?” Jo asks. “Please?”

“Of course, Jojo.”

When I finally get to Winnie and Val, I roll my eyes at their knowing looks, but my skin flushes.

“Don’t worry,” Winnie says, “I distracted Jo during that kiss so she didn’t get a sexual education.”

I scoff, pulling the neck of my T-shirt out to fan myself. “It wasn’t that bad.”

Val laughs. “There was definitely nothing bad about that kiss. The question is—are you still trying to pretend like your marriage is just about Jo? Because, if so, you’re doing a terrible job.”





Chapter Twenty-Seven





Pat





The team didn’t need to wait for the clock to run down on the final score to dump a cooler full of Gatorade over my head. I won the moment Lindy kissed me.

But I’m glad they did wait, because it would have been really uncomfortable to coach a whole game in sticky, soaked clothes.