When You Come Back to Me (Lost Boys #2) - Emma Scott Page 0,36

a great draft prospect, but then an entire defensive line landed on my knee.”

“It’s a damn shame,” said Coach. “But River here is going to carry on his legacy. Isn’t that right, son?”

I nodded, feeling all eyes on me. Feeling the weight of the word—legacy—adding to the weight pressing between my shoulder blades. “I’ll do my best.”

“And then some,” Dad said. “River has more talent in his right hand than I did in my entire body.”

“Dad…”

“It’s true! They all saw it, didn’t you?”

This sent the scouts into another round of compliments that made my skin itch. Finally, the meeting broke up, and they left to chat with Coach privately.

Dad turned to me. “How about that? Your pick of the litter.”

“Yeah, great. Amelia didn’t come?”

His expression tightened. “She said she wasn’t feeling up to it. I didn’t want to push her.”

Or she might break. Because we’re already falling apart.

“You and Donte both are hot commodities,” Dad said, steering us to brighter topics. “Wouldn’t it be something if you and he attended the same college? Keep that magic going?”

“He doesn’t need me to be a great receiver.”

“Of course, he doesn’t. And your talent doesn’t need propping up either. I just thought that since—”

“I gotta go, Dad,” I said. “I’m already running late and they’re going to leave for the dinner soon.”

“Oh sure, sure. I’m proud of you, River. You were…” He shook his head, glancing down for a moment. “Well, you were something special today. Everyone could see it. I wish your mom could have too.”

I swallowed a jagged lump in my throat. “Tell her all about it for me.”

“Will do.”

He patted my cheek and walked toward the parking lot. Head bowed, hands in his pockets. Alone.

The dinner at a local sports bar and restaurant could not end fast enough—the guys ate their weight in fries, hamburgers, and buffalo wings, talking shit and generally making asses of themselves, still high on the victory.

At home, I stopped in Mom’s room to say hi. I peeked in, but she was sleeping.

She was always sleeping these days.

I was twenty minutes late to meet Violet, but I smelled like grease and barbeque sauce. I took another quick shower in the bathroom down the hall, then wrapped a towel around my waist and hurried back to my room.

My tuxedo’s garment bag hung on a hook on the back of my door. I tore it down and tossed it on my bed, then fell back against the closet with a strangled gasp, nearly losing hold of my towel.

Holden Parish was lounging casually against my dresser. He was dressed all in black but for a long gray tweed coat.

“Jesus Christ!”

“Not quite, but I can see how you’d make that mistake.” He examined his fingernails lazily. “Actually, I take that back. He and I are nothing alike.”

“How did you get in?” I hissed with a quick glance at my bedroom door that—thank God—I remembered to shut.

“I have my ways. Also, your front door was unlocked.” His smile was maddeningly devious as his vivid green eyes brazenly scraped over my naked torso. “Get dressed. I’m all for you wearing nothing but a towel all night, but it’s probably a bit much for our first date.”

“Our first…?” I shook my head. “Did I get sacked really hard? Am I hallucinating? What the fuck are you doing here?”

“I’m rescuing you.”

I snorted a laugh. “Okay, I’ll bite. From?”

“From this day. Tonight is a… What would you call it in football-speak? A timeout.”

“I don’t need rescuing. I’m the fucking Homecoming King. I have a dance to go to, so if you’ll excuse me…”

“Have you read all these?” Holden asked, perusing my bookshelf. It was short, only three shelves, but crammed to overflowing, with some books stacked on top of others and more piled on the floor.

“They’re not there for decoration.”

“Mmm. You read. You do not suck at Calculus…impressive.”

“Thanks,” I said absently, my damn brains scrambled.

I couldn’t be in the same room with him dressed only in a towel for one more fucking second. I crossed to my dresser, walking straight into his space, into the thunder cloud of Holden Parish—his scent, his cologne, the bite of cloves and vodka. I fumbled in my drawer for a pair of underwear, clutching the towel around my hips with white knuckles.

He pulled my dog-eared copy of Catch-22 off the stack and flipped it, showing me the cover. “A little too on the nose, don’t you think?”

“What’s too on the nose?” I asked as if it were totally normal