Page 47 of Hometown Halftime

He unpacks everything. Before I know it, bread, green grapes, deli meat and a frozen cheese pizza are scattered across the island. He puts everything away as he speaks.

“I brought a few things from Lowry’s, so you don’t get caught in another Triscuit crisis. I’ve seen you eat grapes and turkey sandwiches, so I got stuff for that. Got a pizza, because who doesn’t like pizza? And I didn’t know what your preferred soup was, so I got options.”

“Options?” I echo, taking it all in.

He lifts the lids. There’s chicken noodle soup, tomato bisque, some bread, and—God help me—a slice of lemon pie and a brownie.

Something in my chest softens in a way I really don’t appreciate. “You outdid yourself.”

He gives a tiny shrug. “You need nourishment, and after the past twenty-four hours, I figured pie was in order.”

A laugh escapes me. “I won’t argue with you there.”

He motions to the containers. “Pick the soup you want and I’ll eat the other.”

I reach for the chicken noodle. “Do I have to decide between desserts?”

He grins. “Nope, we’re sharing those.”

He glances at me then, and it hits me how gentle he is. Too gentle for a man who can stop a defensive lineman with one arm. And far too gentle for someone I’m supposed to keep at a safe distance.

“Want to sit in the living room?” I ask.

“Sure,” he says, and follows me to the couch.

We eat quietly at first. It’s comfortable and easy. It makes me realize that I usually don’t feel this way around men. I’m usually calculating my next move, worried about what they’re thinking. Yet here I am, not overthinking, just comfortable.

After a few bites, I nearly have an out of body experience as I hear myself say, “You know I’m older than you, right?”

Riley pauses mid-spoonful. “Random but yeah, I know you have concerns about that,” he says simply. “Don’t know why that matters, though.”

I wait for him to elaborate, to joke, to give me some polite reassurance. But he doesn’t.

I clear my throat. “By six years.”

“Seven,” he corrects softly. “You turned twenty-nine a few months ago, right? And I just turned twenty-two.”

“Right,” I say, trying to sound breezy. “So that’s…a gap.”

He looks at me and something changes in the air between us.

His voice drops. “Do you really think that matters to me?”

My stomach dips as my pulse stutters. That line shouldn’t affect me so much, but he says it with such conviction that I struggle for words.

“I just…” I trail off, unsure how much I want to admit. “People talk in this town.”

He nods once. “They do.” Another pause, then he shrugs, looking back down at his soup. “But I couldn't care less.”

I look away, pretending to adjust the blanket draped over my lap.

“You’re too young to have to deal with that kind of attention.”

“Kinsey.” My name sounds different when he says it this time, his voice deep. “I get to choose what I can handle. Besides, I’m sort of used to it being under a microscope at school. A small town Facebook page is nothing.”

He lowers his container of soup as he shifts toward me and looks straight into my eyes. “I might be young, but don’t confuse that with being a boy. I’m a man who knows exactly what he wants.”

My breath catches.