Page 73 of Scoring Lessons

His rumble of laughter sent a shock of electricity through me. “About damn fucking time.”

“Only took me sixteen years,” I quipped.

The corner of his mouth etched a soft smirk. “Better late than never, Livvie girl.”

I tried to fight my smile the best I could, but I failed. It was impossible not to tap into my old playful self the more time I spent around Wesley. I didn’t think I minded it much, either.

“Don’t celebrate too hard. I’ve grown on you, too.”

He stared at me in a way that made my blood thrum with something unfamiliar, like he was rewriting the rhythm of my heartbeat without even touching me.

His throat bobbed. “You’re okay.”

“Just okay? Please.” I scoffed as I tapped my boot against his. “Your life has gotten significantly more interesting since I moved here.”

He arched one of his dark-blond eyebrows. His dimple deepened when he showcased one of his blinding smiles. “Has it now?”

There he is, I thought. Wesley. My Wesley.

I lifted one shoulder casually. “Obviously.”

“What a lucky guy I am.” Every word sounded like it scraped his throat raw.

“The luckiest.”

There was so much happening around us—dogs barking, car horns blaring. But it all blurred into nothing the moment I met Wesley’s green gaze. He quieted the storm that was my life, somehow. Like the weight of every decision didn’t matter when I looked into his eyes. He kept me grounded. Almost…hopeful. I didn’t know how he did it, but I was thankful.

I brushed my hands against my leggings then extended them so he could hoist himself up. “Let’s go home. I have an idea.”

He arched a skeptical brow. “Care to fill me in?”

I grinned. “Nope.”

NINETEEN

OLIVIA

YOU’RE LIKE A MAGICIAN.

By the time Wesley was out of the shower, the living room curtains were drawn in and the coffee table was filled with takeout containers from a delicious Indian spot I’d found near us.

When we were kids, our moms used to buy our favorite takeout food on Sundays. And every time it was Wesley’s turn to choose, without fail, we always ate Indian food.

He ran the gray towel through his damp hair, stopping mid-motion when he found me on the floor of the living room, surrounded by bowls of half-sorted candy and greasy brown takeout bags. “What are you doing?”

“We’re going to have a movie night,” I said absentmindedly as I placed the bowls of candies on the table.

His clean, crisp scent filtered through my nostrils when he took a seat next to me. The mix of his proximity and the smell that was so distinctively his sent a trail of goosebumps down my spine.

“Is that Indian food?” he asked in awe.

“I got all of your favorites.” I handed him a samosa, and he eagerly grabbed it and ate half of it in one go. “Good?”

He swallowed, tilting his head back with a satisfactory groan. “So good I could cry.”

His honest reaction pulled a genuine laugh out of me.

We ate some of the classics—naan, butter chicken, chicken curry—in record time as we watched a classic romantic comedy. Once we finished eating, I grabbed the blanket I’d brought from my room and draped it over our laps. It wasn’t big enough, so he had to sit a bit closer, and my blood turned hot. My head met his shoulder when he draped an arm behind me. The simplicity of the moment was charged, and yet, I wouldn’t have wanted to be anywhere else.