Law #3: Don't Fall for the Athlete: Sweet Second Chance Romance (Laws of Love) by Agnes Canestri (black books to read txt) 📗

My fingers fly to my neatly folded neck warmer.

I should’ve ditched it before coming out. Oh, well.

“Busted.” I grin at her. “I get cramps in my shoulders if my wet hair sticks to my nape, just like any other mortal.”

Ellie lets out a theatrical sigh of relief. “It’s good to know you’re human. It gives me hope that I can help you.”

Though her voice and facial expression are relaxed, I wonder whether she’s pretending some of her ease when she shifts her folder in front of her chest while continuing, “By the way, I’m sorry we couldn’t meet in the clinic. But, believe me, the place was like a sauna when I collected these files.” She pats the blue binder.

“No problem. This way, I can give you a tour of my new house.”

She waves her arm toward the buildings on my street. “I didn’t expect you to buy something in this neighborhood.”

I arch my brows. “Ah, no? Then where?”

She shrugs. “Not sure. But I thought if you ever got a place in Phoenix, it’d be in a posh high-rise downtown close to where Pete lives. Or if a villa, then definitely in Paradise Valley. But in Glendale? Isn’t this district too common for a superhero like yourself?”

“I thought my neck warmer blew that image for good.” I give her what I hope is an attractive smirk, and she answers with a smile that warms my chest way more than my hot shower this morning. “In any case,” I continue, “don’t be fooled by the reputation athletes get. Even in Georgia, I don’t live in a trendy area but, instead, close to the stadium. My neighborhood is rather cookie-cutter, but my house has a giant backyard.”

Ellie takes her folder into one hand and lowers it to her side. She brings her other hand to her chin, bending her head slightly to the side. “You, cookie cutter? Nah. I’m not buying it.”

I chuckle at her disbelief. “I swear it’s true. But my district has a lot going for it. I can find fresh produce, locally roasted coffee, and even get a quick haircut within a five-minute walk of my place. Even if”—I brush my longish strands back with a hand—“I don’t make good use of that service.”

Ellie studies me. “I like your hair long. I’ve always liked it.”

“Really? My teammates say that my hairstyle would turn sweet milk to clabber.” I might be fishing for Ellie to admit she still finds me attractive.

She doesn’t take my bait. “You’re in no need for me to boost your self-confidence. That’s an entirely different scope of therapy, one that our current contract doesn’t cover.”

The door of my neighboring house opens, and Gretchen, the lady I met on my second day, steps out.

Her head immediately turns to me and Ellie and she calls out, “Good morning, Wyatt! Good morning, pretty friend of Wyatt. Ain’t this a wonderful day?”

Her pointy chin is jutted forward and her eyes glimmer, which I’ve come to recognize as her prying mode, so I quickly wave back to her and whisper to Ellie, “Let’s go inside, shall we?”

Ellie nods and I lead her into the spacious hall that flows over into the dining room/open kitchen.

Devon’s accountant had a passion for cooking, light wood, and classic workmanship. He’d opted for a restrained Shaker-style design for the cabinets that will probably never date. At the same time, he took the kitchen to the next level with a marble island that showcases a uniquely veined pattern in the stone.

Ellie turns slowly in a circle, taking the place in.

Her eyes flick to the terrace door, then the corridor, and then back to the entrance.

I stifle a smile because I know exactly what she’s doing. She’s scanning the room for the best safety routes. Not that she feels threatened by being with me—or at least I hope she doesn’t—but it’s a habit of hers. Each time she enters a new, closed place, she checks the exit possibilities.

I first noticed this typical ricocheting glance of hers back when she was still in high school, and I’d tormented her with questions until she admitted what she was doing. Her shy smile when she’d confided in me how she’d picked up this quirk is still all too vivid in my mind.

During childhood, Devon had suffered from recurring bronchospasm. By the time Ellie and her brother moved to Kingman, Devon was over the worst of his disease. Still, it must have been pretty bad before, because my pal had been hospitalized several times in Washington.

Ellie confessed that the first time Devon had such an attack was on a winter night. Her parents had thought she was asleep, but she wasn’t. Through the railing of their upper floor balcony, she’d watched the paramedics rush in to give Devon a cortisone shot before taking him to the hospital. She’d heard them chide her parents for not immediately taking her brother outside to the garden when he started wheezing. Apparently, cool, fresh air is one of the first action steps to take in such a situation.

After that, Ellie had taken it upon herself to ensure that Devon would always have the quickest way to clean air.

There are many things I admire about Ellie. Her love and care for her brother is one of them. Even if she ought to recognize that Devon is strong and healthy now and doesn’t need her protection anymore.

“I love this interior. Luxurious yet understated.”

Ellie’s chipper voice jars me out of my memories.

She’s stacked her blue folder and bag on one of my black leather stools, and she’s standing beside the island where I’d left the plate and glass I used for my snack.

“This beautiful marble pattern doesn’t need dripping dishes on it.” She picks up a cloth hanging by the sink and dries my dishes. She lifts them up and asks, “Where can I put these?”

“Uhm, in that cupboard to the left,” I murmur. “But it’s really unnecessary that you…”

Before I can finish my