And our phone calls have been intimate. No superficiality, no falseness, just real conversation between two people.
She was so vulnerable when she reached out to me that first night after her nightmare. And I didn’t want to screw up the fact that she’d chosen me as the one she trusted. I kept things light, like she asked, but as we were getting off, she asked what time I normally go to bed. I told her eleven, and the next night, she called me at nine.
This time, she told me more about her asshole of a father, and how amazing her mom has always been. We talked about her dreams to be a top reporter, and how she wants to be a mother someday.
I told her stories of Jenson and my cousins and how tight we still are. I let her in on how I want a family of my own, and how much it still kills me that my dad won’t be able to hold his grandchildren. She asked me more about what it’s like to play football professionally, and I told her the truth: that it was all I wanted forever, but now that I’ve made it, I’m lonely a lot. Dylan’s my closest friend on the team, and we hang out together all the time, but I want someone to share my life with. Skylar’s voice trembled when she admitted she wants that, too. I know she’s scared, and I realize how much it takes for her to confess something so personal, to anyone. So I didn’t push her, and we said good night.
But she called me again the following evening, right at nine. And we talked for hours, long past eleven, until all I could hear on the other line was her deep breathing letting me know she’d fallen asleep. I kept the phone connected and went to sleep with her.
“I’m falling for you, Sky,” I said quietly, knowing she wouldn’t hear me. “I think I already have.”
After a week of this, she said to me in a broken tone, “What are we doing, Colton?”
“Talking?”
“You know what I mean. I’m…thinking about you. A lot.”
“How much?” I said teasingly.
She laughed. “Too much for my comfort.”
What does that mean? “I need more than that to get what you mean, Skylar,” I said quietly.
“I know. I just…you were the only guy who ever got to me. And all these years later, you still are.”
“Is that a bad thing?”
“It feels amazingly terrifying,” she said in nearly a whisper. “So I still can’t see you yet.”
“We’ll hang out by phone, then. Until you’re ready.”
“Okay. You won’t believe what happened today…” And as she told me about about herself, I fell harder.
Nine o’clock seems to be our time. It’s still early enough for plenty of time to talk, but late enough for secrets to be revealed. And I love it. But no matter how close we grow through the phone, I can’t touch Sky, or taste her, or run my hands through her gorgeous hair of fire.
Training sessions start in a few weeks for the upcoming season, and I’m determined to see her before that. Before I can decide what to do, my phone beeps with an incoming text.
Colt, if you happen to be around, turn on your TV—you know, the black flat screen thingy that you only use for sports and other useless shows? I’m going live for part one of my interview with Maxwell White. It won’t show up on your recording—last-minute program interruption.
Grinning, I sit down with my eggs, bacon, and oatmeal, and turn on the TV.
* * *
An hour later
I flick off the TV and immediately reach for my phone.
You were amazing—loved your question about his work with elephant rescues. Loved even more the way you handled his evasion tactics. You got some great material there, Sky. When can I see you in person so I can congratulate you properly?
I know she’s got to be swamped with producers and other television crew, so I don’t expect her to text me back for a while. I head for the shower so I won’t be late meeting Dylan.
* * *
“So you knew this woman when you were seventeen, but only for one night,” Dylan confirms as we wait for the traffic light to change to green. “And you saw her again four weeks ago and were still insanely attracted to her.”
After I parked in Dylan’s underground garage, we decided to walk to grab food. We’re in downtown L.A. at lunch hour, and the streets are more crowded than we’d prefer. Dylan’s already agreed to let three different women take their photo with him. I got out of it by offering to snap the pictures, and then telling them we had to run.
I pull my baseball cap lower over my face, hoping the brim will help conceal me from being recognized by any more fans. I notice Dylan doing the same with his hat. I don’t know who we think we’re fooling—our size alone is a dead giveaway. Plus, I’m pretty certain a paparazzo is following us—I saw the glint of a camera flash. From the way Dylan suddenly tenses next to me, I’m sure he sees him, too.
The light turns to green. I relax as we start walking again, and finally answer his question.
“Yep. I’ve already told you the whole story.”
“A story that took all of fifteen seconds to relay. Something tells me there’s more to this woman than ‘she’s a great kisser.’ Why didn’t you tell us about her back then?”
I pause. “Because of the timing. I would have told you, but Dad was about to…”
Dylan claps his hand on my shoulder as I trail off. “Sorry, dude. I wasn’t thinking about it being the same summer.”
I mumble something to tell him not to worry about it, but his jaw is tight and I know he wants to lighten the mood.
He looks at me as we cross the street. “So, this girl. She’s not into you for the fame, right? Or the money?”
Dylan’s trust meter is set at about zero when it comes to letting strangers into his circle. Such is life when fame becomes part of your daily existence. Me, I’m not as easily recognized as a quarterback, but I know enough to be careful.
I shake my head. “You don’t get it. Sky hates sports.”
“Doesn’t mean she hates notoriety. Or fancy things. I’m just saying you should be careful,” Dylan says. “Don’t let her fully in until you’re sure. Remember what happened to me.”
I do remember. Dylan doesn’t trust women for good reason. But Skylar is not a user or a traitor. She is however, a runner, and that habit could be the most dangerous of all.
“I’m more worried about her leaving me than clinging to me,” I say. “She’s…different than what you’re used to.”
“We’re walking bulls-eyes,” Dylan says as we duck around the corner, avoiding a crowd of women who start pointing at him. “Like it or not.”
“Sky won’t even know who you are.”
“Bullshit.” He says it without a hint of arrogance. “I’m getting approached by grandmothers lately. Tell me with a straight face she didn’t know you play for the Cougars.”
“She really didn’t,” I tell him. “She thought I meant I played in college.”
“But she’s a reporter.”
“For the arts,” I say for the hundredth time. “She’s not into sports. Not everyone is, you cocky ass.”
Dylan pulls his hat even lower over his face as the light turns and we continue our walk. “I know she rocked your world, but come on, man. You were just kids. And last month could have been some sort of flashback thing—you’d always wondered what it would be like to see her again, and yeah, it was fun. But you’re adults now. What are the odds of this actually turning into something lasting?”
I frown. “We connected. When we were teenagers, and again when I saw her on the beach. We’ve talked every single day since, and not about the weather. About real shit. I care about her, I dream about her…fuck, I can’t explain it. If you don’t know what I mean, then it hasn’t happened to you yet.”
“What’s ‘it?’ Love?” Dylan’s dark eyes twinkle from underneath his Dodgers cap. “You’re saying this is actually—”
I punch him in the arm. “Fuck off, Wild.”
He laughs. “Watch it, Colt. That’s my throwing arm.”
“Hey, if you can
’t handle that, how are you going to take a full season of hits?” I say as we round the corner at the end of the block.
We both groan in frustration at the same time. Sophia’s, our favorite café by Dylan’s downtown apartment, is always popular, but today it’s beyond packed. The line is out the door and around the corner. We could cut to the front, and I’m ashamed to say I’ve done it on occasion. But I don’t like using the fact that I’m a well-known athlete to jump in front of people.
“Should we go in the side door?” Dylan mutters to me.
I shake my head. “I’ve got a better idea.”
I turn left and gesture for Dylan to follow me down the closest side street.
* * *
“What’s this place?” Dylan looks up at the awning as I stop short on the sidewalk. “The Sandwich Shop? Is it new?”
“More like an old hole-in-the-wall.” I raise my eyebrows at him. “You’re telling me you live in the neighborhood and have never been to The Sandwich Shop?”
He shrugs. “I don’t get out much. You know that.”
He means he can’t go out without being mobbed by fans and paparazzi most of the time. Me, I’m just a tight end. Yeah, I’m one of the tops at my position, but the quarterback’s the star. And that’s Dylan Wild. He has a love-hate relationship with fame, and if we win the championship this year, his notoriety is going to be off the charts.
I slap his back and reach for the door handle. “Come on. This place is great. Nobody will bother you in here.”
I’m blinking as I step inside the shop, letting my eyes adjust to being out of the bright sun of Los Angeles at midday. So it takes me a few seconds longer than it would have to see her.
Skylar Rosewood.
She’s sitting in the back left corner, at the only table behind a massive floor to ceiling pole. She’s all dressed up, in the same suit she wore for her interview this morning, with a blouse that can barely contain her breasts and a jacket that hugs her curves to perfection. Her red hair is tied back, and her head is down as she studies the menu she’s holding. Pretends to study the menu. I know she saw us walk in. Her cheeks are flushed and she’s shifting her menu in her hands like she’s debating whether or not to just toss it onto the ground and run out of here.
But then she’d have to pass me.
I smile to myself. This is going to be fun.
* * *
Skylar
Crap. Why did I come to The Sandwich Shop to eat? Of course Colton’s here. It’s the place where celebrities eat when they don’t want to be noticed. I come here for the food myself, but I’ve seen several A-listers here, and my work colleagues have pointed out loads of other stars I can’t remember the names of.
I keep my face buried in my menu for over five minutes. When I think it’s safe, I sneak a peek up at the counter. Colton and his friend are standing at the cash register, and they’ve both removed their baseball caps and slipped them into their back pockets.
Colton’s friend is nearly as hot as he is. He’s also clearly an athlete, with that fit body. He’s a touch shorter than Colton, and a bit leaner. But he’s built, too, and his dark hair and features clash with Colton’s. They’re both in blue jeans and nondescript sweatshirts, probably in hopes of not being recognized. They make quite a pair, standing together ordering their food. I wonder if they’re teammates. The guy with Colton looks familiar for some reason, like I’ve seen him somewhere recently.
I wasn’t kidding when I told Colton I never watch sports. My father was a sports junkie, and when he left our house, all my loyalty to the world of athletics went with him. I used to sit on his knee and watch the games with him, but one wrong move from me—if I laughed when I shouldn’t have, stood up and blocked his view—I’d get slapped. Hard. Didn’t matter if it was football, basketball, baseball, or hockey—my father’s temper dominated everything. So forgive me for hating sports.
I glance again toward the front of the shop. Colton’s laughing with his friend as they argue over who’s paying. The friend wins, and Colton grabs his sandwich and turns around.
I shift back behind the pole and stare down at the table in front of me, counting the seconds until I think he’s left the shop. I’m certain that I can’t be seen from this angle. And I’m sure Colton didn’t see me when he walked in. He would have come over immediately. He’s too impatient to play wait and see. Although these last four weeks, he’s been immensely patient. Not to mention fun to text with. His texts have become the highlight of my day, only to be surpassed by our nightly phone calls. I’ve been so turned on when I go to bed it’s ridiculous. My self-pleasuring has taken on a whole new level of regularity, and he’s the only person in my mind when I bring myself over the edge.
“Good afternoon, Sky.”
I jump as a tall glass of lemonade lands gently on the table surface I’m boring a hole into with my eyes. And I’d know that low, sexy voice anywhere.
I force myself to look up, and our gazes clash immediately. Colton’s eyes are bright with amusement. His mouth twists in that way he does when he’s trying not to break into laughter. I work to compose myself.
“Hello, Colt. I didn’t know you were here.”
His dimple flickers as he pulls out the seat next to me and sits down, plunking his sandwich and a bottled water on the table. “Liar.”
He laughs as my jaw drops open.
“You didn’t think I could tell that you saw me walk in?” He brushes his knuckles down my cheek. “I already told you. I notice everything about you, Skylar.”
I clamp my jaw shut and shoot him a glare. “Good Lord. I think your cockiness has grown a few meters since I last saw you. And that’s really saying something.”
Colton just winks. “Your cheeks were flushed when I glanced over and saw you. You were gripping your menu like you were going to explode from nerves. I figured it was because of me.”
I raise my hand in the air, and then bring it higher. “Cocky meter: top-ass level now. Might want to quit while you’re ahead.”
“I say that to him all the damn time.” Colton’s friend smiles at me as he takes the empty seat across from us. His dark eyes are warm, but he eyes me cautiously.
“Skylar Rosewood, meet my cousin, Dylan Wild.”
So that’s why I recognized him: he’s one of the cousins from the photograph at Colton’s house. I smile at Dylan. “Hi. I was wondering why you looked familiar.”
Dylan leans further back from me, and smiles in a distant, polite way. “Oh, yeah. I’d rather not make a big deal about it.”
I wrinkle my nose. “Wait, what? I thought you guys like being cousins.”
Now it’s Dylan’s turn to be confused, apparently, as he furrows his brow and stares at me. “What?”
“I recognize you from the picture Colt has up on his wall of the bunch of you Wilds. And Jenson.” I turn to Colton. “Jenson’s last name is Beau, right?”
Colton nods almost like he’s proud of me, like I’ve done something incredibly good.
“Dylan’s my quarterback.” Colton pats him on the back. “Like I said, Sky doesn’t watch football.”
Like he said? Has he told Dylan about me?
I refocus on the conversation. “Oh, right! Colton told me you guys are teammates. That must be so nice to have family on your team.”
Dylan flips his hands up in Colton’s direction. “Shit. I wouldn’t have believed it, but I do now.” Before I can ask Dylan what he means, he turns back to me. “It is nice. It’s a lifesaver, honestly.”
Colton puts his hand on my arm, and I involuntarily shift closer to him. Dylan’s set expression relaxes into a smile as he watches us.
“Skylar’s probably one of the few people in here who won’t ask for a selfie with you,” Colton says to Dylan in a teasing tone.
Dylan’s wary gaze disappears. “It’s good to meet you, Skylar.”
“You, too.” Seeing him up close, I realize that I understated just how incredibly good-looking Dylan Wild is, and eve
n though my sparks are solely for the guy sitting to his right, I can certainly appreciate a beautiful man when I see one. Dylan’s dark eyes are soulful but guarded, and his entire energy screams “star.” This guy is clearly used to being looked at, and noticed. I tilt my head. “So going back to what you said earlier, when do you tell Colton to quit while he’s ahead? When you’re on the football field or off of it?”
Dylan reaches for his water and grins. “Both. But mostly off. Colton likes to give advice. Even when it’s unwarranted.”
I raise my eyebrows in mock surprise. “That’s so hard to imagine.”
Dylan smiles wider. “But his heart’s always in the right place.”
Colton gives him a look. “Thanks, man.”
Anxious to understand Colton’s family tree a little better, I decide to take advantage of having both cousins together. “So fill me in on you two. Your fathers were brothers?”
Dylan nods. “Colton’s dad was the oldest of six brothers.”
“Wow. That’s a lot of boys to raise.”
Colton grins. “They were hellions. That’s what our grandma always said.”
“And five of those six boys had sons around the same age,” Dylan adds as he reaches for his sandwich. “Give or take a few years.”
“Me, Dylan, Brayden, Cameron, and Ayden. And Jenson’s like one of us, even though he’s not a Wild, so we count him in there, too. So far, he’s the only one who’s a father.” Colton pulls his chair even closer to me, and points at Dylan. “We’ve all been close since we were kids. Other than myself, the other Wilds have siblings, but none of them hang out with us much. They’re either older, or jerks, or both.”
I’ve always loved Colton’s candor, but I look to Dylan, not sure how he’ll take the comment.
Colton Page 5
