Page 112 of Tangled with the Tight End

“Does what?” I ask.

“Reaches over, like this.” She reaches up and touches my face. “And then he slowly drags his finger down her face.” She drags her finger down the skin next to my mouth and I’m relatively certain I stop breathing. I’m frozen, but the trail of her touch sparks to life, humming with electricity.

“And then …” she continues, as if she can’t tell how she’s affecting me. “... if it’s really a scene that makes you kick your feet, he does this.”

She takes her finger and puts it in her mouth and pulls it back out, pretending to lick off whatever invisible food she just swiped off my face.

My breath definitely stalls. I could swallow my tongue.

She mentioned romance novels. If I was looking for an opening, this is it.

Did she mean to bring up romance? Or is she being Winona? Delightfully present, saying whatever comes to mind, blissfully unaware of the reactions she elicits from people around her.

She takes another bite of potatoes. The commercial switches to a fast-food sandwich restaurant.

“Hey! That’s Delaney!” Winona shouts, looking past me at the TV.

“It is.”

“Shhhh.” She shushes me, eyes fixed on the screen. “There’s Keller!”

“Yep.”

“Why aren’t you on this?” she asks, sounding offended on my behalf.

“I do other commercials.”

She glances up at me. “Like what?”

“Pepsi. Gatorade. McDonald’s … Nike. Under Armor … I did a few for State Farm last year.”

“Oh yeah,” she says, rolling her eyes. “Blah blah blah Nike. Just another day in the life.” She laughs lightly—mocking me, but with a familiarity that makes me ache for her in yet another way.

Her tone grows more serious. “You’re an actor, Declan.” She flops back against her chair, eyes wide, an amused grin on her face. “I need to see these commercials.”

I laugh at her reaction. It’s not like any other. She’s not in awe of me. And yet she is impressed.

“We might be able to find them on YouTube,” I tell her.

The game comes back on. The announcer says something about the Chiefs having possession of the ball.

“We’ll look for your commercials after the game,” Winona says. She raises her pointer finger and squints at me. “Don’t think you’re going to distract me from remembering, either. I need to see you in a commercial.”

I laugh again. “Fine. We’ll find them.”

And then she stands up. “Give me that glass.”

“I was getting a refill.”

“Watch the game,” she offers, gesturing to my spot on the couch with a tip of her chin. “I’ll miss the next play to get you another drink. You shouldn’t miss any of it.”

I do as I’m told, returning to the couch. And she’s right. I shouldn’t miss a second of game play. Which is why it makes no sense that my gaze follows her out of the room.

Winona returns with two full glasses.

When she settles back into her chair, she goes quiet, her attention as focused on the screen as mine.

The game is a close one. By halftime, I’m antsy.