Page 130 of Tangled with the Tight End

“Yeah. But that’s all I’m going to say about that.” I shoot her a look that says we’re finished discussing me kissing Declan.

“Anyway,” I say. “The rain slowed, but I was tired. And he asked me to stay—in the guest room.”

“Okaaaay …”

“And then I woke up and the housekeeper was there. My mind started running questions. Does he have women over often? Am I special?”

“You’ve been hanging around him for what now? Five … six weeks?”

“Five and a half.”

“But who’s counting?” Cass laughs and nudges my knee again.

“Have you seen women waking up in his house?” she asks almost rhetorically.

“No.”

“Does he have a girlfriend?” She knows he doesn’t.

“No.”

“What if he really likes you?”

“Me? The girl who’s about to go meet three dogs so she can learn their idiosyncrasies as a part of her odd-job life?”

“You, my brilliant, funny, kind, thoughtful, resourceful, beautiful sister. What if what you do for a living doesn’t matter to him?”

It doesn’t seem to matter to him. She’s right. He treats me like a friend … until last night.

“You should have seen Snow,” I say, mentally holding myself up next to the gorgeous redhead.

“It was a rainstorm, Win. No snow in sight.”

“No. Not the rain. Snow. The woman who showed up this morning.”

“A woman showed up this morning? Named Snow?”

“Yes. His mom gave her the gate code.”

“Boundaries!” Cass shouts, waving a hand in the air like a symphony conductor.

“Right?” I shake my head. “Anyway, she was gorgeous. She looked better than I have ever looked in my life—at nine in the morning. After an obvious road trip. She looked like she was about to do a Cosmopolitan photo shoot. And here I am sipping coffee from a mug at his kitchen island, wearing his jersey and his mom’s yoga pants … my hair a wreck …”

I’ve been looking down into my lap without realizing it. When my head lifts, my sister is staring at me. The expression on her face isn’t judgment or pity. Her brows are drawn up and her eyes are soft.

“Winona. Why can’t you see what’s right in front of you?”

“This burrito?” I ask.

“The fact that Declan O’Connell has had all these women—women like Snow—around him for years. And yet, he chose to kiss you. You’re the one he asked to wear his jersey.”

“He called me beautiful,” I barely whisper the words, as if saying them out loud will crack them like a fragile piece of glass.

I’ve looked in the mirror. I know I’ve got pretty eyes and nice hair. I’d call myself the-girl-next-door kind of pretty.

But today, within the past two hours, two people told me I’m beautiful.

And one of them was Declan.