Page 115 of Tangled with the Tight End

I sleep better when she’s in the house. What would it hurt to let her stay right where she is?

The rainstorm picks up. I propel to the front door, staring out one of the glass panels flanking the double-tall doors, debating with myself.

Winona grew up in Tennessee. She’s driven in the rain. She’s rested.

There’s no real reason for her to stay.

But … this rainstorm is heavy.

Is it heavy enough to justify her staying here?

I have a jersey she could use as pajamas. Mom has some yoga pants in the spare bedroom left over from when she and Dad stayed here.

Another clap of thunder booms like a signal.

I leave the window and swing back to the guest room. This time I pop the door open wider, stepping inside and staring at her for just a moment before I say her name.

For the first time since my injury, I’m in no rush to get back to the game and my season. As soon as they clear me, my time with Winona will end. She won’t have any reason to come here. I’ll be swept up in my job.

I shake those thoughts and quietly speak her name into the dim light of the bedroom. “Winona?”

“Hmmm?” She rolls over. And then, in an adorably groggy voice, says, “No. Not now. Just gimme a minute.”

I almost back out of the room.

Then she rolls over again.

“Declan?” She mumbles my name, but burrows more deeply into the pillow. “Why is this bed so cozy?”

The kind of smile she draws out of me feels rare and private. Like she’s the only person in the world who could elicit it from me.

“I don’t know. It’s not nearly as comfortable as my bed.”

As soon as the words are out of my mouth I realize how they sound.

Winona’s eyes go wide. Then her brows draw down and she studies me.

“I mean, I slept here,” I clarify. “It’s a good bed. Mine is better—for me.”

She nods, still not making any effort to lift her head or get out of bed.

She rolls onto her back, stretching like a cat. “Is it raining?”

“It is.” I pause. “And you are welcome to stay … here … in this room. I’ve got a jersey, yoga pants and a toothbrush.”

“All set for sleepovers?” she asks. “And you wear yoga pants? This I need to see.”

“No.” I shake my head, laughing. “They’re my mom’s pants from when she stayed here.”

“I was joking, Declan.” She sits up. Her hair is wild and her face looks more rested with a soft, drowsy glow that makes her look irresistibly beautiful. This is Winona off the clock—unguarded and relaxed. The sight of her tugs at me.

When she glances at her shoes, tucked under the chair in the corner of the room, I simply say, “Stay.”

Winona’s quiet for a beat. She glances around the room, and then she nods.

Thunder roars, a burst followed by a rolling roar. Then lighting strikes, lighting up the room in stark lines. The room immediately plunges into darkness.

“Declan?”