The Coaching Hours (How to Date a Douchebag #4)(86)

My hands fly to my hips now, affronted. “I am not stomping on your heart, you brat!”

“But you’re never going to fall in love with me, are you?”

“I don’t…” I don’t think so. “I don’t know.”

We stare each other down, the kitchen silent, clock above the window ticking loudly. Tick, tock. Tick, tock.

Then, from the front of the house, a knock on the door. Three short raps, followed by more deafening silence.

“Guess that’s my cue to leave.” Rex gathers the black winter parka draped over one of my kitchen chairs, sliding his arms into the sleeves. Zips it up the front.

I flirtatiously bump him with my hip. “I’ll walk you out.”

“Let me go first. It’s dark out, you shouldn’t be answering the door. You have no peephole.” Passing the couch on his way to the entryway, he snatches a blanket from the back, unfolding it. Drapes it across my shoulders. “Here, wrap up. It’s cold out.”

My heart leaps at his gesture, wishing the circumstances were different, wishing my heart wasn’t aching for someone hundreds of miles away.

“Thank you.”

We’re still grinning at each other like fools when Rex unlocks and pulls open my front door, smiles dropping when we both catch an eyeful of the man standing on my front stoop.

My breath catches.

“Elliot?”

Those soulful eyes I love so much gaze up at mine, flickering between Rex and me, flashing a mix of curiosity and anger. Jealousy.

“Well, well, well, look who decided to show up.” Rex’s laugh is slightly maniacal and my brows shoot up, surprised. “Hey, baby daddy. Long time no see.”

“Rex!” I gasp, mortified and uncomfortable. “Stop.”

Elliot shifts on his heels. “It’s okay, Anabelle. He’s right.”

“Damn right I am.” Rex’s nostrils flare.

I drag my gaze off my friend, fixating on the guy I haven’t laid eyes on in far too long. “Elliot, what are you doing here?”

“Yeah, Elliot,” Rex parrots, “what are you doing here?”

“Please, Rex.” I turn to face him, laying my palms in the middle of his chest, over his puffy winter coat. “Maybe it’s best if you left. I can handle this on my own.”

I can’t describe the change in his expression—couldn’t if I tried—and I want to beg him to forgive me for sending him away when he’s just trying to protect me from myself, from getting hurt when it’s obviously inevitable.

Hurt and devastation. Love and devotion.

That’s what I see reflected in Gunderson’s half-hooded eyes as he looks down at me, debating.

“Fine.” His lips purse. He leans in and presses a kiss to my cheek, speaking low into my ear. “Text if you want me to come back.”

“I will.”

“Night, Anabelle.” He yanks a knit cap out of his pockets, pulling it down on his head. Snarls at Elliot, bumping his broad shoulder as he passes, stepping down onto the sidewalk. “Deuces, douchebag.”

I give him an embarrassed, feeble wave. “Bye.”

He walks backward down the sidewalk, facing the house, calling out to me in the frigid cold. “I’ll be back in two weeks. I’ll message you while I’m gone.”

Another wave. “Drive safe.”

It’s freezing and our warm breaths mingle with the frigid air, tension-filled puffs wafting into the night. I can’t stop my chest from rising and falling, breathing hard from the shock of seeing Elliot on the concrete steps of the house.

I drag my eyes off the road, off the taillights of Rex Gunderson’s retreating vehicle to Elliot’s, afraid of what I’ll see there.

“I know it’s not my place to ask, but what the hell was that?”

He’s right—it really is not his place. Not anymore, not after he left without any declarations or commitments toward me.

“That was Rex.” I’m deliberately being obtuse.

“Clearly.” He pauses, tone laced with irritation. “What was he doing here?”

“We’re just friends.”

“Just friends. You expect me to buy that bullshit?”

I throw my hands up, too tired to argue, too excited to see him. He’s big and strapping and finally—FINALLY—standing on my doorstep, just as I’ve dreamed about hundreds of times.

“Elliot, I’m really glad to see you, but if all you want to do is argue about my friendship with Gunderson, then you’ve come to the wrong place.” I swallow the lump in my throat before tears threaten to spill. “Besides, I thought you’d go home to your parents when you came back.”

“No. I came straight here.” He swallows a lump, too. “This was where I wanted to be.”

At his feet sit two huge duffel bags I don’t recognize, large, full duffels that look nothing like overnight bags. They’re big, overstuffed, made for travel.

“What is all this? You’re only home for a few weeks, this seems…excessive.”

“I left school, Anabelle. I packed up my shit and left.”

“What do you mean?” I swear my breath hitches, breathlessly anticipating what he’s about to say. Hopeful but wary. Excited but cautious. Guilty.