The Romantic Pact (Kings of Football)(11)

The day Pops passed away, I was by the barn, washing down the horses. My grandpa sped up on one of the farm’s four-wheelers. His eyes were red, his face distressed, and his voice breathless. He didn’t have to say anything. I knew. I dropped the hose and rushed back to the house with him.

Pops had been sick for a while. It’s why I was busting my ass around the farm, trying to take care of my normal chores, plus his. Being a tourist farm has its pros and cons. The farm has always brought in good revenue, but during summer and fall, we worked our tails off from sunup to sundown preparing for apple and berry pickers. Fall is our most lucrative season, with pumpkins patches, tractor rides, barrel rides, corn mazes, live folk bands, homemade apple cider and apple cider donuts, food trucks all along the picnic area, and, of course, the famous pumpkin cannon. It’s a lot of work and Pops put me in charge. This past year was overwhelming, to say the least, and being in charge of the staff while he was sick was even tougher. I let the ball drop many times, and I wound up going to bed in a heap of tears, knowing damn well that I was failing him.

So, when Grandpa Thomas presented this trip from Pops to me, I didn’t even ask any questions, I took it. I needed it. We were at the tail end of our small Christmas season and everything was under control, so I granted myself permission to go on this trip. I was also nudged by a note from Pops.

All it said was “You need a break. Take it.”

He was right.

And I’m thankful Crew is the one I’m taking the trip with. Except for the last few years, he’s been a huge part of my life. Every summer I looked forward to Crew and his parents visiting. I prepared a world of activities to do, and when he arrived, we hit the ground running.

Being here with him on the plane, playing Dots and Boxes—it feels so natural, it feels right.

I poke him with my pen. “Come on, answer the question.”

“You really think I touched your boob on purpose? There was nothing to touch.” He smirks and my mouth falls in feigned outrage.

“Crew Smith, how dare you?”

He laughs as I poke him some more with my pen.

“There was boob there. It might have been miniscule, but there was boob.”

“Sort of like a pebble in a shoe. You know it’s there, but you can’t really find it.”

“Well, you must have studied my chest closely then, because you found it.”

He shrugs. “Lucky guess.”

“Aha. So you admit to grabbing it on purpose.”

“I admit to being quite concerned for you and wanting to make sure there was something there.”

“You’re such a liar.” I laugh while he lays on that charming smile of his.

Crew Smith is one handsome man. Pretty-boy looks with plump lips, perfect bone structure with an angular jaw, and that boy-next-door messy hair. He’s devastatingly tall and broad, his hours in the weight room evident in the way his sleeves cling to his biceps. He’s always been attractive, and over these last few years, he’s become positively striking. Thankfully, I’m immune to his charm.

Well, for the most part.

His smile can still cause butterflies to erupt in my stomach.

He takes the top off his pen again and says, “Come on, next game. I have some questions of my own.”

“Okay, good luck.”

He loses the faceoff again for who goes first, and I snicker to myself while he grumbles. I start the game off and he quickly adds a line, trying something new with a spot in the corner. We go back and forth, I let him have some boxes, he messes up a few times, and before we know it, I’m scribbling in purple again and calling the win.

“Damn it,” he huffs. “Are you playing this game in your spare time?”

“What spare time?”

He shrugs. “In between chores?”

“Yup. That’s exactly what I’m doing.” I roll my eyes.

He points his pen at me. “I knew it.”

“You’re being ridiculous.” With a smirk, I tap my chin playfully and say, “Now, what question do I want to ask this time?”

“Oh, I’m sure you have something brilliantly embarrassing up your sleeve.”

“I have many.”

Just then, the flight attendant brings each of us a tray laden with a small pizza, a salad with accompanying dressing, a dinner roll with a foil-wrapped pat of butter, a glass of water, and silverware wrapped in a black cloth napkin.

“We’ll be bringing the dessert cart around in a while. Let us know if you need anything else.”

“Thank you,” Crew and I say at the same time.

When she’s gone, I lean toward Crew and say, “This is fancy.”

“I see why we had to wash our hands with that towel now. We’re fine dining, Twigs.” He winks, using the nickname that Pops and Grandpa Thomas used to call me all the time.

“You’re used to this, Hollywood.”

“Nah, you know me better than that.” He begins to spread butter on his roll.

“True. You’d rather be seen at a dive restaurant than a fancy one.”

“Fact,” he says before taking a big bite from his dinner roll.

I unfold my silverware and lay my napkin on my lap before cutting up my pizza and placing a small bite in my mouth. “This is good. Is it weird that it’s so good?”