Page 67 of The Clinch
“Full camp probably won’t start until late August.”
I pull my hand free. “No.”
He waits me out.
“I don’t want my parents to get the wrong impression.”
“Do they know about our arrangement?”
“They’ve seen the coverage. They know about Travis. I told them it’s… pretend.”
His gaze holds mine. “Then it shouldn’t be a problem.” A beat. “Unless you’re worried they’ll like me too much.”
I look away first.
Nate’s housecomes into view—glass and sharp lines, modern and unapologetic. Before we even reach the steps, I hear music, bass thumping through open windows. Male laughter layered over it.
Leo’s eyes flick to me. “Want to run back to the ferry?”
“No.”
His brows lift.
“I mean,” I add, “there’s always the next boat.”
The corner of his mouth moves. “Fair enough.”
The front door is open. Shoes are scattered in the entry like a small riot happened. The smell hits next—garlic, smoke, something rich.
“Of course Russo’s cooking.”
Leo’s voice goes fond. “It’s his love language.”
Inside, it’s a zoo of beautiful athletes pretending they’re normal people. Big chests. Board shorts.
Nate’s at the stove—bare feet, hair damp, towel over one shoulder—running the kitchen the way he runs the crease: calm, precise, tracking ten things at once.
“Carver,” he calls, then his eyes catch mine. “Liz. Hey.”
“Hey.”
Two guys hover near the island, trying to help and failing.
One lifts a cutting board. “I can?—”
Nate points with the utensil. “No.”
“I was just going to?—”
“No,” Nate repeats.
The other guy backs away with both hands up, laughing. “Chef’s in a mood.”
Eden slips in behind Nate and loops her arm through mine, steering me deeper into the room.
“You’re here,” she says. “Finally. I need reinforcements. The testosterone is intense.”
“Looks like we’re still outnumbered.”
