His brows shoot up to the brim of his hat. “Seriously? You’re coaching with Coach Wilson?”
I shake my head. “No, Coach Morrison hired me.”
“For the men’s team? Hell, that’s pretty awesome.” He shifts and I take that second to observe him, soak him all in. He’s not much bigger than when I last saw him. Maybe his biceps are a little thicker, but that could be me imagining things too. Same handsome face though, scruff lining his jaw, and killer eyes that to this day still make me dream of comfort. “Congrats.” He looks off to the side and asks, “Were you going to tell me you were back in Chicago?”
I glance at the catalog I’m clutching to my chest and shake my head. “Wasn’t planning on it.”
“I see.” I feel his eyes on me as he says, “How are things with Anthony?”
Not wanting to have this conversation here, I say, “You know, I should really get to my office. It was good seeing you.” I try to move past him, but he grabs me by my upper arm and holds me in place.
“You owe me explanations, Indie.”
I glance up at him, and his face is as hard as stone. “For what?”
“You really weren’t going to let me know you were back here?”
“We haven’t talked in a year, Lincoln. What’s the point?”
“The point is I thought we were friends. Even when we had periods of not talking, we still met up. How is this any different?”
“Things have changed.”
“Because of Anthony?” he asks, an irritated look on his face.
“I really should go.”
I start to walk away when he calls out. “Where’s your engagement ring, Indie?”
I pause and squeeze my eyes shut. Nothing gets past him . . . ever.
“That’s what I thought,” he says, coming up next to my ear. “You have some explaining to do. Text me your address, I’m coming over tonight.”
“Lincoln, that’s not—”
“It’s not a question. It’s a request,” he says in such a stern tone that for a second I don’t recognize him at all. “Text me, Indie.”
And then he walks off, and I watch as he takes large strides, eating up the hallway and pushing through the doors that lead to the parking lot.
Text him.
Yeah, there will be no texting him.
I’m not ready to answer his questions, especially when I’m still filing through the hurt, the . . . desolation Anthony left me with.
Fresh out of the shower, I dry off and wrap a towel around my torso. That’s exactly what I needed, a nice hot shower to wash the day away.
After Lincoln left, I went back to my new office and tried not to hyperventilate. By the time Tyler got back from his meeting, I was levelheaded and had a few articles of clothing circled. When he asked why I didn’t pick more, I just said I felt bad, when in reality, I wasn’t mentally checked in to think about clothing. He told me to take the catalog home and figure out the rest of my selections so we could order tomorrow.
So I did just that. I enjoyed a nice Mediterranean salad, circled the rest of the clothes I wanted, and then took a much-needed hot shower. Once I lotion up, I plan on crawling into bed naked and then spending the rest of the evening watching mindless TV to clear my head of the day.
I brush my teeth and floss, then I hang up my towel, lotion my entire body with this amazing lavender bedtime lotion my mom got me for my birthday, and just as I finish brushing my hair, there’s a knock at my door.
I set the brush down, and peer around my bathroom door. Did I hear that right or was it a neighbor? I stand there, holding my breasts for some reason as I listen closely and then a pound to my door. “Indie, open up.”
Lincoln?
How on earth does he—
My mom.
Damn that woman and her meddling.
I pull my dark purple silk robe from the back of my door, slip it on, tie a tight knot, and then go to the entryway where I peek through the peephole. A very irritated Lincoln stands on the other side.
There goes my peaceful night.
I unlock the door and open it. He doesn’t even bother to say anything, he just charges in.
“Come on in,” I joke, shutting the door behind me.
He’s wearing sweatpants, his hand is pushing through his hair, and his shirt is rising high, giving me a brief glimpse of the waistband of his boxer briefs from his raised arm.
“What the fuck, Indie? I told you to text me.”
“Looks like I didn’t need to,” I say, leaning against my door.
Blowing out a frustrated breath, he glances around my tiny apartment and scans every corner. “Are you here alone?”
“Does it look like I could share this closet with another human being?”
Not answering, he walks over to my two-person couch and takes a seat, draping his arm over the back like he always does. It’s how he’s the most comfortable, and it’s how he’s gotten away with playing with my hair so many times.
“Sit, Indie.”
“Do you really think I’m going to fall in line to your barking at me?”
“I can force you to sit if that’s better?”
Insufferable.
I walk over to the living room, and I watch his eyes carefully as they roam my body, starting at my legs and then traveling up to my breasts where they stay until I sit in the chair next to the couch. No way am I sitting next to him, not when he’d be that close on my tiny couch.
I cross one leg over the other and my robe exposes more thigh than appropriate, so I quickly try to cover it. “I’ve buried my head in your pussy on multiple occasions, so there’s nothing to be modest about.”
I run my tongue over my teeth and know he’s right, so I let the robe do its thing but make sure it’s secure up top.
“What do you want, Lincoln?”
“A lot of things.” He looks me dead in the eyes. “But how about we start with why the hell you didn’t text me?”
“Because . . .” I wish I could leave, even though this is my apartment, anything to get me out of this incredibly painful conversation.
“Because why? If that’s how you’re going to be answering questions, you might as well show me the bedroom, because I’ll be here all night.”
I don’t doubt him.
“I didn’t text you because frankly, I was too nervous to have this conversation.”
“And that’s why you didn’t call me either, to tell me that you moved here?”
“Yeah, part of it.”
“What’s the other part?”
I sigh and say, “We haven’t talked or seen each other in a year, Lincoln. It didn’t seem appropriate. Last time we spoke, it wasn’t the greatest get together and since I didn’t hear from you, I thought . . . well . . . that was it.”
“The phone goes both ways, Indie.”
“I know, but it wasn’t easy back then.”
“Because of Anthony?”
I look at my lap. “Yeah, because of Anthony. He, uh, wasn’t very keen on our friendship.”
“So you let some fuckhead control you? I’ve been your best friend for years, Indie. Best fucking friend and because some guy I never heard about decides to pop into your life and tell you not to talk to me, you listened to him? Where’s the goddamn loyalty, Indie? I would never do that—”