I Promise You: Stand-Alone College Sports Romance(33)

“Yes!” Romy and I say at the same time.

Romy smirks. “Your senior citizen center is a hotbed. Geriatrics are the most likely to contract venereal diseases. Just ask Serena.” Her tone is sharp as she darts her eyes at me and then away.

“Serena!” Julian sticks his head in the front door. “Someone’s pulling up with your car.”

“My car?” My voice rises.

What in the world?

How are they driving it? It’s at the Pig…

I wipe my hands on a dishtowel and head to the front door, then stop. Oh, oh, right! I was distracted when the quarterback showed up in the parking lot. I’ve been meaning to get a ride to grab my keys, but it’s slipped my mind.

My eyes flare wide as I stop on the porch and watch as Sawyer gets out of my car. I have the team profiles and photos memorized. Dillon’s Escalade pulls up behind my car at the curb. Owen Sinclair is in his passenger seat.

My eyes are on Dillon as he exits his vehicle.

He sweeps his gaze over the house, briefly glancing to my apartment over the garage. He’s wearing workout clothes, gym shorts, and a Tigers vented tank. The ends of his hair curl around a ball cap.

His eyes flash over to me, lingering.

I gaze down at my gauzy teal harem pants and orange-striped bandeau top that cups my breasts and loops around my neck. I’m showing a liberal amount of midriff. It’s a far cry from my Piggly Wiggly outfit or my stadium clothes.

This is the real me, football player. A little wild. A little scared of you.

“Serena,” he murmurs as he stalks toward me.

“This is…”—shocking—“a surprise.” My gaze flits to my Toyota. “What’s going on?”

“Your car—don’t you need it?”

“Yeah, but how…” My words stop as Owen comes around the Escalade.

His gaze darts between us. “Hey, Serena. Dillon said I owe you an apology.”

“He did?” I ask, bemused.

“Apparently I was a dick at the stadium.”

“And…” Dillon prompts.

Owen grunts. “And I shouldn’t have said, ‘Pass her along when you’re done.’”

“Ah, okay. You fixed my car?” I glance at my sad excuse for a Highlander, wincing at the rust around the edges of the wheels, the dent Romy put in the bumper.

“Not me. Dillon,” Owen says. “I’ve got no clue what you see in him. He’s the biggest asshole—”

Dillon pops him on the arm, shutting him up. “What Owen meant is, we ran past the Pig this morning and saw your car. We checked it out, spied the keys in the console, so I popped the hood. Turns out, you needed a battery. You should have told me you didn’t have a car. I would have driven you home from the stadium that day.”

“So you decided to drive to AutoZone and get a new battery?” My tone is incredulous. He fixed my car!

Sawyer raises his hand and says, “He called me and I brought them one.” He flashes me a wide grin. He’s handsome, his wavy black hair chin-length, his skin a dark bronze. Small silver hoops hang in his earlobes. “Dillon wanted to repair it and deliver it to you. So, we did. Now that I see you, well, all is clear. Crystal. Nice to meet you.”

I murmur the same back to him.

“How much do I owe you?” I ask Dillon.

Before he can answer, Julian juts in and gives me a prod in my ribs. “Why didn’t you tell me your car was stuck at the Pig? How long?”

I sigh. “A week. You were working late shifts and I was going to get around to it today at some point. I didn’t have any catering gigs this week, just class and the Gazette. I was fine.” I explain how I called the manager and she told me it was cool to leave the Highlander.

He gives me a disgruntled look.

My chin tilts. “I like to walk.” Magnolia doesn’t have a bussing system, and Nana needs her car for her visits to the senior center and to drive Romy to and from school. If we had more money, I’d buy my sister a car, but we don’t.

Julian exhales. “It wouldn’t have taken much for me to run over there.”

The truth is, he’s got a new, demanding girlfriend and spends most of his extra time with her. I’ve heard him on the phone with her trying to explain why he’s over here repairing this or that. Two weeks ago, it was the garbage disposal. The week before that it was a gutter that came down in a storm.

“Well, well, who do we have here?” Nana’s voice comes from the porch. She approaches us wearing leopard-print leggings and a black Guns ‘N Roses shirt. Her unlit cig still dangles from her lips, but thankfully she’s taken out the rollers and teased her hair up in the back, the ends flipped up à la 1950s. Betty is in her arms.

Buster paces the porch and yips, sending indignant looks at the crowd until he gets the nerve to jump down the steps and trot after her.

I start with introductions—

“Oh my God! Dillon McQueen!” is shrieked from the front door as Romy throws it open.

Dillon laughs as he looks at my face. I laugh with him and he stops, pausing, something on my face making him blink. Butterflies take off in my stomach. Stop, I yell at them.

“Why didn’t you tell me you invited friends over!” Romy grouses as she makes her way over to us. She fluffs her hair, an excited look on her face. “Eek! I need an autograph!”