Page 93 of The Score We Never Settled

And, most importantly, number three, it’s a little too late to be supporting me when he never did before. He never went to my high school games; he wasn’t involved in my grades or what I had going on outside of home, which was anything under the sun to stay away from him.

So, at this age, I’m a grown-ass man who doesn’t need his father to suddenly come in and be supportive. The ship has sailed on that one, and it gnaws at me.

It straight up annoys the shit out of me.

“Dinner’s ready,” Adeline announces from the kitchen, carrying a large white serving pan of roast and potatoes between her oven mitts to the table.

“And I brought dessert,” another female voice articulates in this sweet, dick-hardening voice that I have no problem recognizing from memory, but I still command a view to confirm my girl is in the room.

And my girl is definitely in the fucking room.

She’s carrying a pie—don’t care what kind or any details behind it—but that white spaghetti-strapped dress she has on, paired with brown boots and a matching cowboy hat, has my cock twitching desperately in my jeans to dive underneathallof it.

Her hazel eyes give me a once-over as if checking on my well-being before she places her dessert in the middle of thetable, while Everly takes the opportunity to jump her with introductions.

“Layla Jean, this is my boyfriend, Caleb.” Said kid reaches over the table to shake my girl’s hand. “I’m so happy you came.”

Me too.

Except, I can now add another thing to my list of things I didn’t want to do while coming to this formal dinner to meet my sister’s boyfriend.

I didn’t want to eat with a hard cock while my girl sits at the same table as me, and I can’t do anything about it.

Layla is her mannerly and charming self when she says hello to my father, who doesn’t deserve it. She asks Adeline if there is anything else she can help her grab from the kitchen, but my sister shoos her off and says there isn’t.

Then she takes the seat next to me.

Kitty-corner and not close enough when she plucks her cowboy hat off the top of her head and places it onto mine.

“Hey, trouble,” she mutters with a teasing gleam in her eye as she adjusts it so she can still see my face underneath. “You actin’ like the Southern gentleman I know you can be?”

“I dunno. Never met him.”

“Me either.”

She openly takes my beer from my grasp and gives it two nice little chugs while she tips her head just so, exposing the soft trail of her neck and my soon-to-be new residence.

Then, just to top it all off and send the last bit of my sanity out the window, she licks at her bottom lip, and I shove my chair back to get the fuck out of Dodge.

Or at least temporarily.

“I’ll get you something to drink,” I offer, praying to God there is not a dick print visible in my jeans right now. “What do you want, Short Stop?”

“Beer’s fine.”

“Be right back.”

She makes sure to brush the side of my knee while I trail to the kitchen with a new mission.

The only mission.

Because I can’t do the MA-rated ones. And my sister would murder me if I fucked up her perfectly made and planned dinner.

I can skip dessert.

Because I’m going to have Layla Jean.

25