Fumbled (Playbook #2)(55)

I swipe the screen and forgo a greeting. “I’m coming.”

“Finally,” he mutters, and I contemplate revoking my offer. “I’ve only been banging on your door for the last twenty minutes. The cops are probably going to show soon.”

Shoot. He’s been here that long? I scramble off the floor, feeling a tiny bit bad but trying not to let him know I’m feeling that way. “Drama king.”

“Just open the door.”

I twist open the locks, unlatch the door, and pull it open. But not because he told me to, I was going to do it anyway. “Bossy.”

“Whatever.” He flips on the light switches in my entryway/living room. “Where’s your phone?”

“Right here.” I wiggle my fist full of phone in his face and look at the screen when his face hardens.

Fifteen notifications.

Oops.

“Crap.” I cringe, seeing the ten missed calls from TK, three phone calls and two texts from Vonnie. “Is Ace all right?”

The panic I felt earlier starts to return, sweat breaks out on my forehead, my fingers tingle, and my eyes fill with inexplicable tears. I ignore the text messages Vonnie sent and hit her contact before I think better of it.

Not that it matters because TK swipes the phone from my hand and disconnects the call before the first ring. “Ace is fine. He just wanted to tell you about the game. I saw him after, they were having the best time, and Vonnie has it covered. They were going . . .” He trails off, his gaze straying over my shoulder and redness traveling up his neck, hiding behind his beard. “What are those?”

Oh crap.

I didn’t throw away the flowers.

For one, the arrangement is so big it wouldn’t have fit into the trash can in my kitchen in the first place. Second, there was no chance in freaking hell I was walking my happy ass to the alley behind my house, alone, to throw them away.

“What’s wrong?” TK’s looking at me instead of the flowers—my lack of response must have gained his attention back. The hard set of his jaw softens and he wraps his big, strong, safe arms around me and pulls me into his chest.

“I thought they were from you,” I whisper into his chest, thinking if football fails, he should market himself as an alarm system. “I don’t know who they’re from.”

“Was there a card?” He burrows his nose into my hair, which I’m sure looks fabulous after resting on the wood floor for however many hours I was down there.

“Yeah, but there’s no name.”

TK drops a gentle kiss on my forehead, stepping around me and into my living room. After poking around the flowers and looking on the coffee table, he finds the card on the floor.

I watch with avid fascination as a myriad of expressions cross his face. First humor, since I’ve told him about Sadie and so has Ace. I’m sure he’s thinking it was a joke. Then there’s confusion. His eyebrows knit together, causing the cutest wrinkles to crease the bridge of his nose and deep lines to settle on his forehead. Then anger. The red that had faded comes back with a vengeance. This time the red doesn’t hide behind his beard, you can see it through the thick scruff covering his cheeks.

“What the fuck?” he asks like I know something, his eyes flying back to the scratchy penmanship.

“I don’t know.” I take a deep breath. Partially to tell TK something I know is going to set him off, also because saying it out loud makes this real. And it’s scary enough already. “There’s something else.”

He sticks the card into his pocket, and for the first time I notice how freaking hot he looks. His long hair is pulled up in a bun on the crown of his head, the highlights the sun has provided him with streaked through would cost me hundreds of dollars, and his emerald eyes are magnified beneath glasses I’m not sure he even needs. His big body is wrapped like a present in a tailored-to-perfection, brown plaid, double-breasted suit I’m convinced would look ridiculous on anyone else. The bottom half is just as good. Slim-cut pants suction to his thick, muscular thighs with his navy socks peeking out right above his loafers.

“Poppy.” He snaps his fingers in front of my face. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, sorry.” I shake my head to clear it. “I like your suit.”

“Thanks.” His lips curve into a smile he’s trying hard to fight. “What else did you want to tell me?”

“I don’t really want to tell you. It’s just, you know.” I shrug. “You’re here and you see the flowers. And it will probably be good to tell you. You’ll be able to tell me I’m overreacting and—”

“Poppy.” TK interrupts my rambling. “Spit it out.”

I want to stomp around my living room and flail and pout on my bed, pissed that nothing in my life can be drama free for long. But since society frowns on temper tantrums from anyone above the age of three, I settle for sticking out my tongue.

“I found these when I tripped on them walking to my door. I didn’t see them because I thought I forgot to turn on my porch light.” I hesitate, feeling unease prick at my skin and my back go straight. “But I never turn off that light, so I thought maybe it died already, even though I just changed it like a month ago.”

TK’s posture matches mine, and I know as much as I want him to tell me I’m overreacting, he isn’t going to.