Until May (Until Her/Him #11)(6)

“For sure.” He tucks his hands into the front pockets of his jeans, then leans back on his heels, looking like he wants to say something, but then he shakes his head. “Later, doll.”

“Later.” I open the door to my house and go inside, shutting it behind me. As I head for my room with plans to get into the shower, I feel like I’m missing something. Like something huge just happened… and that something has nothing to do with saving that little boy.





Chapter 3


Aiden

EXITING MY RENTAL, I strip off the hoodie and carry it with me to the truck. It’s hot—too damn hot. After spending years in London, I’m no longer used to the heat, especially not the heavy, soggy heat of Florida. After grabbing my bag, I head up the sidewalk to the house my friends Troy, Lincoln, and Carlo rented for the week. Before I even reach the door, it’s swung open, and Carlo is there with a grin on his face, holding a soccer ball under his arm.

“Took you long enough,” he greets in his thick Spanish accent.

“Had to wait for my car.” I give him a one-arm hug as I step into the house and look around.

“Nice digs.”

“Only the best for mi amigos.” He tosses the ball that was under his arm toward the couch in the living room, then I watch it bounce off of it and roll across the floor as he takes my duffle. “Your room’s down here.” He leads the way down a hall and pushes open the door at the end.

“Where are the guys?” I ask as he drops my bag on the queen-size bed that is covered with a bright floral bedspread.

“Beach, hanging with the chicks that are staying a few houses over.”

“Nice,” I mutter, because I know it’s what I’m supposed to say, even if I have no fucking desire to hang out with anyone of the opposite sex. Especially when I can’t get the brunette from back home out of my head.

May.

I would think that’s too cute of a name for such a beautiful woman, but it somehow fits her.

“They’re cool, and none of them know who we are, so that’s even better.”

I catch his smirk and roll my eyes. In London, or really anywhere in Europe and the rest of the world, people would stop us on the street, in the middle of dinner, or just walking down the sidewalk to tell us they either hated our guts or how much they loved us. In the US, that’s never really been an issue. Soccer overseas is like American football here; it’s a lifestyle. Maybe one day it will be as popular here in the US, but right now, it’s not. Not that that shit matters anymore—my soccer career is over.

“Are you ready to hit the sand?”

“Yep.” I kick off my shoes and take off my shirt.

“I see your mama’s been feeding you well since you’ve been home.” He pats my stomach as I walk past him.

“You know my mom doesn’t cook. This body is built on takeout.” I run my hand over my stomach that is still flat, just not as contoured as it used to be when I was playing ball every day.

“How are your parents?”

“All right.” I shrug. I didn’t come here this weekend to talk about how fucked up my family is; I came to get away for a few days and pretend like everything in my life is peachy.

When we reach the living room, he heads for the kitchen while I grab the soccer ball from where it rolled under the coffee table.

“You want a beer?”

“Yep.” I toss the ball in the air and catch it on the top of my foot while he digs around in the fridge. When he comes out with two beers, he opens both, then heads for the sliding glass door. I meet him there, taking my beer, and we clink them together.

“To a really good weekend.” He holds my gaze. “I’ve missed you, brother.”

“Don’t start getting sentimental on me. I just might cry.” I grin, and he chuckles as he opens the door to the deck that overlooks the beach and ocean.

When we get down to the sand, I spot Troy and Lincoln chatting with two women down the beach. “The gorgeous one with dark curly hair and legs for days is Nalia. The cute blonde with her is her sister, Willow. The other two girls must be up at the house.”

When we get close to the group, all eyes come to us, and Lincoln grins before running at me full force and ducking low so he can shove his shoulder into my stomach. Next thing I know, he’s lifting me off my feet and over his shoulder.

“I’ve missed you, mate.” He spins me around like some chick, and I laugh as he drops me to my feet, giving me a hug. How a man his size is light enough on his feet to play soccer is anyone’s guess, but he’s built for football—as in American football.

“You’re looking a little red out here under the sun, buddy,” I point out, and he glances at both his shoulders.

“I’ve already gone through a bottle of sunscreen.” He shrugs, then grins. “It’s bloody good seeing you, English.”

“You too.” I pat his back right before he wraps his large arm around my shoulders, squeezing tight, then lets go. When we reach Troy, he’s scowling at me, and I open my arms.

“Come on, man. You’re not still pissed at me, are you?” I ask, and he grunts something under his breath, then grins and drags me forward to pat my back. Damn but it feels good seeing my boys again. For four years, while I was living in London, they were all I had. We lived together, vacationed together, traveled together, and worked together. The three of them became my family, and even more than soccer, I miss them.