Getting Schooled (Getting Some #1)(24)

I think I’ve held up pretty well through the years. But, I wonder . . . does Garrett think so too?

I bang my head against lime-green-tiled wall, trying to knock out the frustration.

“Stop it.” I scowl at myself in the mirror. “It doesn’t matter what Garrett thinks. That’s not what tonight is about.”

He agreed it was a date. He winked, Bad Callie whispers.

I roll my eyes and mirror Smart Callie does the same.

“Garrett’s a flirt, charming—he doesn’t know how to be anything else.”

Garrett’s single, I’m single . . . we could be deliciously, dirtily single together. The boy’s got moves . . . you remember. I bet his man moves are spectacular.

Smart Callie shakes her head. “I can’t complicate this. I’m here for ten months and then it’s back to real life. The seals—remember the seals!”

Ten months is a long time. And did you see him with his students . . . with his players on the field? Admit it—you spontaneously ovulated on sight!

“My dream job is waiting for me on the other side of the country. Garrett’s going to give me some pointers so I don’t get fired or go crazy.”

“Pointers” really isn’t what I was hoping Garrett would be giving me tonight.

“We’ll be coworkers,” Smart Callie insists, like the practical girl she is. “Friends . . . good friends.”

With benefits. We both know Garrett’s benefits “package” is in a class all. Its. Own.

Damn, Bad Callie is persuasive.

I hear a knock at the front door, and my brother-in-law lets Garrett in—the steady rumble of their small talk drifting through the walls. His voice is clearer when he walks into the living room, where my parents are playing Dance-Dance Revolution, ’70s edition, from their hospital bed.

“Hey, Mr. and Mrs. Carpenter.”

“Garrett! It’s so good to see you.” My mother’s smoky voice is high with excitement. She always loved him.

“How are you guys feeling?”

“Not so bad,” my dad joins in. “Where’s a three-legged race when you need one? We’d be champs.”

“I’m happy you’re spending time with Callie tonight,” my mother says. “She’s been very tense lately. You were always good—”



I’m out the bathroom door and down the hall, faster than Flash Gordon.

“Hey!”

Garrett turns and meets my gaze with an amused smirk. His body fills the entryway and he’s wearing a light-blue button-down shirt and worn, relaxed jeans that hug his taught, fantastic ass perfectly. My mouth goes dry and my breath races from my lungs.

“Ready?”

His eyes drag over me, pausing briefly on my boobs. They were always Garrett’s favorite too.

“Sure.” He leans in, voice dropping, smelling like man and awesome outside sex on a fall day. “You look great, Cal.”

“Thanks.”

My mother waves her long, red fingernails at us. “Have fun, you two!”

Out on the lawn, Garrett puts his hand on my lower back, guiding me towards his Jeep. And the déjà vu strikes again.

It was a different time and a different Jeep . . . but Garrett and I made a lot of memories in one just like this. We were young and wild and couldn’t get enough of each other. To be climbing into the passenger seat with him at the wheel is as familiar as it is exhilarating.

“How long do your parents have to stay in that bed?” he asks. “They remind me of the grandparents in Willy Wonka.”

I laugh. “Not much longer. The doctors want them to start getting up and out to prevent pneumonia or bed sores. That’ll be interesting.”



~



We pull up to Garrett’s house across town about ten minutes later, just after the sun has set and the sky is a soft, dove gray. It’s beautiful here on the lake—quiet, except for the gentle chorus of crickets and buzzing dragonflies.

I stand in the gravel driveway and look up at the stately redbrick house. It fits Garrett, reminds me of him—simple, handsome, solid, and sturdy.

“Wow,” I breathe out, teasing. “The north side of the lake, huh? When did you become Mr. Fancy-schmancy?”

Growing up around here, if you lived on the north side, everyone thought you were rich.

Garrett gazes up at the house too. “Signing the mortgage for this place was one of the scariest days of my life. Even with the extra from coaching and driving lessons on the side, I gave new meaning to the term house-poor. But . . . it worked out.”

“Yeah, it did.” Affection and warmth climb up my throat and pepper my words. “I’m happy for you, Garrett. You have everything you always wanted.”

His eyes drift from his house to me, lingering.

“Not everything.” Then he shrugs, grinning. “But it is a great fucking house.”

Inside, it’s easy to tell a man lives here alone. It’s clean, comfortable—with neutral-color walls and well-used furniture and a Ping-Pong table where a dining table should be. There are curtains that I’d bet my left boob Mrs. Daniels bought and hung for him. There are a few framed family pictures on the walls and in a glass case in the corner of the living room, the dozens of football trophies and awards Garrett earned through the years—first as a player, and then as a coach.