Bring Down the Stars (Beautiful Hearts Duet #1)(24)

“He looks pretty golden from where I’m sitting,” Ruby said, lowering her sunglasses and squinting over the field.

I followed her gaze and found Weston in his white and purple Amherst gear, warming up with his teammates. The opponents from Tufts, Wesleyan, and Williams were scattered in their own groups farther away.

The Amherst teammates talked and laughed, except for Weston, who stood apart, stripping out of his warm-up pants and jacket. Underneath, he wore a white running tank and purple shorts, revealing the long, lean lines of his body. His muscles flexed under bronzed skin, perfectly outlined by the tight contours of his running uniform.

God, he’s beautiful.

“You sure you’re not here for that?” Ruby asked. “Because I am so here for that.”

“Jeez, Rube,” I said, not looking away.

“I’m talking about the whole team, not just Wes. Damn, I just became a track and field groupie.” She flapped her hand at the men stretching long limbs. “Look at them. And soon they’ll be running and leaping and sweating…”

I laughed, grateful for the cool breeze that wafted over my cheeks as my gaze ate up Weston.

“Yep, he’s a looker, that Wes,” Ruby said. “But you’re right—he’s got a pretty good scowl going on. Or maybe he just has a bad case of Resting Asshole Face.”

“That’s not a thing. And he’s a good guy. But he’s—”

“Not Connor.” She grinned. “Speak of the devil. This should be fun.”

I turned to follow her gaze. Connor was taking the bleacher steps two at a time to meet us. He wore jeans, a T-shirt, and lightweight jacket that all looked like they’d come straight off a runway.

“You made it!” Connor’s wide-open, carefree smile lit up his entire face. “And wow, you look amazing.”

Vowing not to make a touchy-feely fool of myself again, I offered my hand. “Nice to see you.”

Connor’s hand swallowed mine, and then he pulled me in for a hug.

I lived for a good hug. One that made me feel safe or comforted. Edmond de Guiche had been my longtime hug dealer, but as I was enveloped in Connor’s strong arms, suffused with his cologne and the warm scent of his skin…

Not fair, I thought, as my body started to melt against his broad chest.

He released me and stepped back to give Ruby a shoulder squeeze. “So glad you came. Have we seen our champ out there?” Connor shaded his eyes, scanning the field. “Ah. There he is.” He clapped his hands together a few times, then cupped them over his mouth and yelled, “You’re my boy, Blue!”

Weston’s head came up and he scanned the crowds. He found Connor, gave him the finger, and then his eyes found me. I offered a little wave. Weston held my gaze a moment then went back to his stretches.

“The old Turner charm,” Connor said, laughing.

“How come he doesn’t hang with his team?” I asked.

“Weston doesn’t work or play well with others.”

I frowned.

“Don’t feel sorry for him,” Connor said. “Wait ‘til you see him run.”

A warm feeling spread through my chest at Connor’s obvious affection—and proud smile—for his friend.

The Amherst coach huddled up his team. Weston stood at the periphery, hands on his hips, listening but not participating, when the team broke with a loud, “Gooo Mammoths!”

The first race was the 60-meter dash. Weston lined up with eight other racers, one of them an Amherst teammate. I found myself at the edge of the bleacher, biting my lower lip as the runners crouched at their places, working their fingers onto the track. In unison, they straightened their legs, hands still on the ground. The air tightened in that few seconds before the gun went off. When it did, the tension cracked. The runners took off and we cheered them on.

Nine men raced alongside each other, a mass of long legs. Weston pulled out in front immediately, and within seconds the race was over. His teammates clapped hands and swatted butts, but only one said something to Weston. He nodded in return, hands on hips and breathing hard but not heavily. I imagined if Connor were on the field, Weston would end up with a bear hug whether he wanted it or not.

The scoreboard lit up with names and times.

Turner, W. AMHERST ………………… 6.97

The second place finisher had a time of 7.14.

“Holy crap,” I said.

Connor beamed. “The world record is 6.39. My boy is fast.” He cupped his hands over his mouth again. “Way to go, T!”

Weston didn’t smile, but he didn’t give Connor the finger again either.

Connor turned to me. “Want something to drink? Lemonade?”

“That’d be great, thanks,” I said.

He leaned around. “Ruby?”

“Please.”

I reached for my little pocketbook. “Here, let me…”

“I got it,” he said. “Sit tight. We have some time before Wes races again.” He started to rise, then sat again. “Before I let one more second go by, I want to say you look really pretty today.”

A warmth spread through my chest. “Thank you.”

He stepped over us to the stairs and headed down, waving at someone to his right, pausing to talk to someone on the left. This part of the bleachers wasn’t even half full for these prelim races—maybe sixty spectators—but Connor seemed to know everyone.