Jock Row (Jock Hard #1)(63)

“I should get some sleep,” he says at last. “I’m running a half marathon at five in the morning with a friend from high school.”

“A half marathon?”

“Yeah, no big deal. It’s only thirteen miles.”

Jesus. No wonder he’s in such great shape.

“Good night, Sterling,” I say on an exhalation.

His lips curve. “Night, Scarlett. See you Friday.”

We hang up.

It’s impossible to sleep.

A text message comes through as I’m rolling back over, and I grab my cell one last time before silencing it.

Rowdy: Hey Scarlett?

Me: Yeah?

Rowdy: If this distance didn’t exist, we’d be fucking right now.





NINTH FRIDAY


“The Friday of Sun and Sand and Tits and Bikinis.”





Rowdy


“Can you do me a favor and not embarrass me in front of my friend?” I flex the fingers of my left hand nervously, a habit I picked up from standing long hours in the infield during baseball games.

“You mean your girlfriend?”

“Mom, please don’t call her that when she’s here.”

“So she’s not your girlfriend?” She feigns ignorance to torture me.

“Yes, she is. Just hearing it…” makes me so damn stupid, I don’t know what’s going to come flying out of my mouth. I’m giddy, and having Scarlett here, in my fucking house, is making me want to run circles around the neighborhood to burn off this nervous energy.

I’m pumped. So fucking stoked.

“It’s all good, kiddo. Mom is hip.”

“Just—oh my god. This is going to be my worst nightmare.”

My mom sets down the knife she’s using to cut up a pineapple, resting it on a butcher-block cutting board.

“Why are you so dramatic?” She sighs, popping a chunk of fruit in her mouth. Chews. “So high strung, just like your father.”

I press my lips together and take a deep, steadying breath. “Mom, just…be cool, all right? Don’t start planning our wedding. Don’t mention babies. Don’t ask what books she reads, don’t—”

Wrong thing to say.

My mother cuts me off with a palm in the air. “Does she not read?”

“Yes, she likes to read, just don’t grill her about your novels, okay?”

My mother writes historical romance novels and is a total nerd when it comes to reading.

“What does she like to read, then?” she presses.

“Mom. If you embarrass me, I’m never bringing her back here again.”

She straightens against the counter, uncurling her spine indignantly. As if I’ve offended her somehow.

“You’re hurting my heart.” She places a hand to her chest, affronted that I’d even suggest to her that they’re an embarrassment. “I’m not a regular mom, I’m a cool mom.”

Oh for fuck’s sake.

“I’m serious. Don’t do that thing you always do when there are girls around…”

“What thing?” She glances around the kitchen as if expecting someone to pop out from one of the cabinets. “What girls?”

“That thing!” My arms are waving around as if independent from my body. “That thing, that thing—babies and weddings and shit.”

“Sterling Aaron, I don’t even know this girl. I certainly wouldn’t talk about babies in front of her.” There’s a brief pause. “Why? Does she like babies.”

I’m so screwed.

“I just don’t need you scaring her.”

“Why?” She leans forward, elbow on the counter, eyes bright, alive with interest. “Do you actually like her? Is this one going to stick?” Mom makes the sign of the cross against her chest. “I’ll be on my best behavior, promise.”

Shit. That’s not a good sign, either.

See, the thing about my parents—especially my mother—is that they’ve always been overinvolved where I’m concerned. As their only son—and one who was athletically inclined—no matter how busy they were or how often they traveled for work, they were always at my games.

Overinvolved. Overenthusiastic. Overactive imaginations.

My mother is a romance novelist, so it’s always come with the territory—she romanticizes everything I’ve done. Every girl I’ve gone out with, every relationship I’ve never committed to—all fodder for her writing.

She simply cannot help herself.

It’s her job.

But, that’s never made it any less annoying.

I sigh, grabbing my car keys off the counter. “I’m running to the airport to grab Scarlett and when I get back, can you just behave? We aren’t characters in one of your novels.”

A terse nod. A mischievous tip of the lips. “Of course you’re not.”

She’s not looking me in the eye.

“Thanks, Mom.”

Another cube of pineapple gets popped into her mouth. “Drive safe, and wear your seatbelt.”


Scarlett

Rowdy looks just like his mother.

It’s the first thing I notice when she greets us at the door when we return from the airport…having made out in the car for fifteen minutes before coming inside the house from the garage.