The Romantic Pact (Kings of Football)(62)

“Too bad they don’t have a Funyun bag.”

He chuckles. “Now that’s an ornament I would buy for everyone, including you . . . even though I already got you something.”

I sigh. “Stop rubbing it in. I feel like I need to find something to give you.”

“Nah, I’m just teasing you. You don’t need to get me anything.”

“What are you going to open tomorrow?”

He shrugs while looking over some baubles. “Maybe Pops left something.”

“Maybe.” Taking in the rest of the shop, I ask, “Are you good in here?”

“No, I think I want to stay a few more hours.”

I playfully push at him. “You’re braving the cold. I don’t care what you say.”

“Brutal.”





“How are you doing?” I ask as Crew cuddles up to his large coffee.

“Surviving.”

“You’re so strong,” I say sarcastically as we make our way around the town, walking on top of the stone wall. It barely fits two people side by side. Thankfully I’m smaller than Crew or else we’d be having a hard time walking next to each other. On the outer side of the wall, it extends up and connects to a wooden roof, providing shelter from the freshly falling snow. It’s light, but it’s starting to increase. And the town side of the wall is blocked off by a wooden split-rail fence that I don’t think could take the weight of Crew if he fell into it.

“How much longer do we have?”

“We’re almost back to the start. Glad you could enjoy this once-in-a-lifetime stroll with me instead of counting down the minutes.”

“I’m sorry,” he says quickly. “I don’t know what’s with me today. It’s the lack of scarf. Shit, okay.” He shakes his arm out and puts it around me. “What do you want to talk about?”

“Are you using me as body heat?”

“I wish that was an option, but you’re so goddamn small it makes it impossible to steal any warmth from you. Just trying to show you that I’m enjoying our stroll.”

“You don’t need to put your arm around me to do that. You could tell me what you like about this town.”

“Honestly, I think this has been my least favorite place we’ve visited.”

“Really?” I ask, surprised. “It’s a very popular destination. Why is it your least favorite?”

“I just don’t feel Pops here. I don’t know. Maybe it’s because we’ve just walked around and there hasn’t been an activity. But I don’t know, it hasn’t really struck me.”

“Is it because you’re itching to get to the hotel and open the package waiting for us there?”

“Maybe,” he says quietly.

“I can understand that. You’re distracted so you can’t appreciate the beauty of Rothenburg ob der Tauber.”

“I guess not.”

“Then let’s pause for a second.” The entrance to the stairs and the town are right up ahead, so we don’t have much farther to go. I turn Crew toward the town and we both look out over the carbon-copy red roofs and timber houses. “Can you imagine what life was like back then, living in the circle of the town, barricaded by a wall to keep you safe, never knowing if anyone would come and attack you?”

He joins me and leans against a pole. “No, I can’t. Honestly, I don’t think I’d survive.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Spent my whole life working on throwing a football. That wouldn’t have gotten you anywhere back in the day. Now, you—you, on the other hand, would be able to hold your own on many accounts. Even fencing.” We both chuckle. “I would have to marry you, keep you by my side, be your homemaker while you took care of the dirty work for our household.”

“Is that so?” I ask, the thought of marrying Crew churning my stomach with nerves.

“Yeah, and I’d be one hell of a homemaker. You’d always come home to fresh bread.”

“Do you even know how to make bread?” I challenge him.

“Hell yeah, I’m the baker in my frat. The boys call me . . . uh . . .” He pauses, his nose scrunched up. “Uh, who’s a famous baker?”

My head falls back as I laugh. “Duff Goldman.”

“Who’s that?”

Rolling my eyes, I say, “Never mind. So, you can make bread?”

“Yeah. And as we both know, I am accomplished at making cookies, thanks to Pops.”

“True. What about dinner?”

He takes a sip of his coffee and says, “Well, I know how to grill. I know, I know—typical frat-guy cooking. But we do a lot of barbeque. I made a chicken noodle casserole once that was pretty good. I also know how to make homemade cornbread, and I can roast veggies.”

“Okay, that’s a pretty good start. Now when I came home after doing all the—as you called it—dirty work, would I find my husband looking pretty, put together, and in an apron?”

“Is that what the wife would require?”

“It is.” I take his coffee from him and sip as well, feeling a little colder now that we’re not walking, but loving this conversation.

“Then, yes, I’d look like a smoke show for you every day when you got home so you’d have no choice but to want to jump in the sack with me.”