Page 80 of Lessons in Lemonade

“Mmmhmm,” she mumbles against my chest as she lies halfway on top of me, her leg thrown over mine.

“I’m serious.” I squeeze her side to wake her up a little more. She stretches out, sliding her foot down and over my calf, the result being something else of mine waking up from its satisfied postcoital state.

“What do you mean buy one of those houses?” she asks sleepily, her curiosity piqued.

“You know, big, Southern, old, historic, in the Battery, with a gorgeous garden. You did say you were on the fence with your place, and well, those homes are larger. I’m a big guy. Trust me, over time, you’ll want the space from me.”

She tilts her head back on my shoulder and looks at me. Her lips are swollen, inviting, and dammit if that doesn’t add to the arousal I already feel.

“You’re not even going to be here half the time. I mean I know you’ll only play for a few more years, but we don’t need a huge house right now.”

“Actually . . .” I’m nervous to tell her this, and I don’t know why. “I’m not going to be playing anymore.”

“What? What do you mean?” She sits up, the sheet and the blanket slipping down to her waist. My eyes drink her in because—well, how could they not? Complete perfection.

“I retired.”

Her jaw drops as she takes in what I’ve just said to her. “Why? And why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

I brush her hair over her shoulder; I just want to be touching her. “Because . . . because it was time. Because once I got back, I realized I didn’t love it as much anymore. Because you’re here.”

Her eyes lock onto mine, and even through the darkness, they hold and search for the truth.

“Jack, I don’t understand. All of this”—she waves toward my knee—“the last couple of months . . . it was all to get you back to playing caliber. You’re going to give that up?”

Taking her hand, I thread my fingers through hers. “See, I don’t feel like I’m giving anything up. The way it was in the gym, how young the new guys are coming in, and last week, Billy took a few of us out on his new boat—”

She turns her head away from me and looks out the window. “Yeah, I saw. I was here miserable and pining for you, and you were off having a grand old time.”

I grasp her chin so she’s forced to look back at me. “That’s not how it was at all. They dragged me out of my condo after calling me a sad sack of shit then dumped me on the boat where I couldn’t leave. Yes, the boat and the day were nice, but I was with Billy and Missy, Bryan and Lexi, and Reid and Camille. Tell me, how much fun do you think I had that day?”

“You love being with your friends.” Her tone is sympathetic like she’s worried, but she still doesn’t get it, even after tonight.

“I do, but I love you more. I was miserable, and no matter how hard they tried, my heart was here, not there.”

“But are you sure you are ready? Football is your life. Tampa—that’s your home.”

“Home has never been a place. You know I’ve lived in a lot of different cities. Home to me are the people. It was my parents, then my teammates, and now you. You are my home. It doesn’t matter if you live in Charleston or Anchorage—wherever you are is where I want to be.”

“But . . .”

“Look at your phone.” I point to the bag she carried this evening; it’s over on the nightstand.

Skeptically, she reaches over, grabs it, pulls it out, and sees the social media notification from earlier. She gasps as she opens the tagged post and it lights up the room. There, front and center, is a picture of her from the moment she first walked into the garden. I knew she was everything to me before then, but right then—that’s when I knew for sure.

“I can’t believe you took this picture of me.” She glances at me then back to the phone.

“I had to. Did you read the caption?”

There under the photo it says: The first and the last. My only.

It already has over forty-seven thousand likes and over eight hundred comments. She double-taps it, hugs it to her chest, and then leans over, lightly placing her lips on mine for the sweetest kiss. It’s not passionate, but it does hold so much promise and so much feeling. I can’t help but tangle my fingers in her hair and pull her closer.

She lets me, of course, but then jerks backward as she asks, “What will you do now?”

“Well, you were right,” I tell her, running my fingers down her arm.

“What do you mean?” she asks as goose bumps chase me.