The Guy on the Left (The Underdogs, #2)(81)

“Damn,” I laugh, “you went there, huh?”

He pushes the door open and ushers me out. “There’s very little I wouldn’t do for you, Ms. A.”





In Troy’s truck, I study him as he drives. He’s so fucking handsome, so masculine, and yet I find myself completely floored with how different his personality is in comparison to all his perfection. He’s the first to admit when he’s wrong. The first one to take others into consideration. Sure, he’s cocky but only to a point. He’s never played indifferent to the feelings of others, especially his son’s. Troy isn’t the reason women stereotype, he’s the exception. You don’t have to dig deep to see his layers. He’ll gladly lift his armor to show you what lays beneath, you need only ask.

The most dangerous people are the ones you let get close, only to reveal their Gemini side once you’ve confessed or given them a lot more of yourself than you should’ve. Troy’s the opposite of that type, giving you only enough to draw your conclusions before subtly blowing you away with his depth, the beauty of his strength, the inner workings of his heart. I’ve seen his anger, his temper, I’ve seen his lows, the good and the bad, and none of it has changed my opinion of him.

“What are you thinking?”

“That I’m lucky,” I say without hesitation. “That I’m so lucky you’re mine.” He turns to me, his eyes filling with emotion as I tell him my truth. “You’ve surprised me, Troy. In the best way.” He stares at me for long seconds and then pulls his truck over at a bustling car wash. “What’s going on here?”

“Quick stop. I want to give you something.”

He plucks his phone from the console before jumping out of his truck, cornering his hood, opening my door, and hauling me into his arms. We hold each other for long seconds while he strokes my back, running his fingers through my hair before pulling away to smile down at me.

“Welcome home.”

“Home looks so beautiful.”

I look up at him through my lashes. “What are we doing?”

He leans past me, turning up the volume in his truck.

“Putting our dance lessons to good use.”

“Here? Are you crazy?”

“Shhh…” he says, tapping play on his phone before pulling me back in his hold, just as Ray LaMontagne starts to croon “Hold You in My Arms.”

“This isn’t embarrassing at all,” I nervously giggle as a few people tirelessly scrubbing their cars glance over at us like the love-crazed weirdos we’ve become.

“I’m up here,” he says softly while tilting my chin up with his finger.

“So, the car wash, huh? Does this often work with the ladies?”

“You’re my first.”

“Your first what?”

“You’re all my firsts. Relax,” he whispers, kissing my cheek before nuzzling my neck.

“Who knew you would be such a romantic.”

His eyes fill with pride. “Isn’t that a good thing?”

“It’s a great thing. By the way, my sweater is almost out of cologne.”

He chuckles. “On it.” As we dance, I sink into his hold, the words hitting hard, resonating deep. The wind kicks up, but I stay comfortable in the warmth emanating from him.

When the next song starts to play, Troy grips my ass, pulling me close, thighs nestled between mine, our dancing bordering indecent as he moves us to the beat of the bass. I shake my head, still feeling the eyes on our backs but give into him, dancing along.

It’s when the man begins to sing that all my bells go off and my heart does a somersault. “Oh, my God!”

Troy continues to rock with me in his arms as I bang on his biceps.

“Troy! Oh, my God! It’s the SONG! TROY! It’s the song!”

Tears flood my eyes, and as I begin to move back and forth with him, emotions running rampant, I’m a hysterical mix of laughter and tears as we sway to the music.

“This is it!” I shout happily through my tears as he cups the back of my head and peers down at me with a blinding smile.

“I hoped it was…listen,” he lifts a finger, “right…here…Ahhhhh, baby!” He sings to me as I burst into laughter due to his animation.

“You found it,” I say, shaking my head. And then we’re dancing, in the freezing cold, in a car wash off the side of a Texas highway. I couldn’t care less who’s watching as I cling to him, swaying my hips, a mess of emotion. Troy pulls me closer, kissing the cold tears from my face. When the song ends, I shake my head repeatedly, more tears spilling over. I’m sure I’m a spectacle, but I can’t stop the shake in my voice.

“How, how did you figure it out?” I ask, my heart beating a mile a minute.

“The picture.”

“The picture?”

“The one of you and your mom you showed me. On the back, it said: My baby & me, AG 5.”

“I always thought it meant age five.”

“No,” he says, pushing the hair off my shoulders, “It’s called “Tired of Being Alone,” by Al Green.”

“Wow. I’m just…Troy, this is everything.”

“I can’t take all the credit. Theo is a maestro, and he helped me figure it out. It was a long shot, but I listened to his greatest hits and could only find one song that would make me crack a smile in the middle. You said there was that one part that always made you laugh.”