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

a hand through his hair as if this attention flusters him. Then he smiles and shouts back, “Thanks, guys. Really. But please, continue to enjoy your evening!”

He gently nudges me forward.

As we move on, a couple of guys pat his back. Phil, the florist who supplies my mom with orchids, even asks Wyatt for insider scoops about the Kites’ upcoming season strategy.

Wyatt is courteous to everyone but cuts most of the conversations as short as possible.

When we get through the busiest part of the party, which, as always, is the line leading to the drink stalls, I lean in close to him.

“You see,” I say in a low voice. “You’re a celebrity to them. It thrills everybody that you’re here.”

“To be honest,” he whispers back, “I’m only concerned with one person’s feelings at this dance. Someone who isn’t blinded by such trivialities as fame and money.”

While my head knows (well, sort of) that Wyatt isn’t good for me, the rest of my body, including my dumb heart, refuses to acknowledge this truth. That must be the reason my voice trembles as I say, “That’s because I know you.”

Wyatt’s eyes widen while his gaze heats with raw emotion. He slowly nods. “Yes, I suppose you do. Better than anyone, perhaps.”

Before I can make sense of this unsettling phrase, a hearty “Howdy!” interrupts us.

Martha’s husband, Harry, is walking to us with a smile on his face.

“Wyatt, my boy,” he exclaims. “My wife told me you were in town, but she wasn’t sure you’d stay for tonight.” He adjusts his cowboy hat so his bushy eyebrows become almost invisible.

His gesture reminds me of something my father told my mother when we first moved to Arizona from Washington state and she caught him splurging on a custom-made felt hat.

Dad claimed that a nice hat makes or breaks the cowboy look. I never thought much about this statement, but as I blink at Harry’s black hat, I can’t help but admit that my father was spot on. The hat alone makes the sturdy chap, who I know prefers the comfort of his couch to exercise, look like a rodeo old-timer.

“We couldn’t miss the dance, could we?” Wyatt grins.

Harry snaps his fingers. “Not unless you want to skip a rip-roarin’ good party.” He waves his arm around. “We’ve got food, enough booze to make the angels happy, but above all”—he points to the stage—“music that’ll make you wanna hop, whether you’re light on your cowboy-booted feet or just barely breaking in the leather.”

“Great band, by the way.” I smile at him. “Congrats on commissioning them.”

“Thank you.” Harry pats my shoulder. “You’ve always been a sweetheart, Ellie. Martha and I often wonder how come you’re still singl—”

“Harry, where are you?” Martha’s shrill soprano cuts through the surrounding noise like a knife through butter.

“I’m here, honey,” Harry calls back and waves to his wife.

Ah, thank heavens for the interruption.

I’d much rather if Wyatt doesn’t think my date with Bill was out of the ordinary, and I definitely don’t want Wyatt to discover that I spent most of that dinner wishing I hadn’t accepted Bill’s invite.

Martha’s pink cowgirl hat matches the color of the tiny doggies printed on her shirt. Though the dim lighting makes it difficult to read her face, I swear I can detect a weird mixture of relief, guilt, and anticipation in her chubby features when she realizes with whom her husband is speaking.

“Ah, I’m glad you came,” she says when she reaches us. “It’ll be quite an interesting evening for you.”

Did her accent on interesting refer to what I think it did?

Before I can develop a strategy to deflect and defuse her suspicion about Wyatt and me, Martha grabs her husband’s elbow. “Come, Harry, let’s leave the young folks alone. We belong with the elderly crowd.”

Harry’s hand flies to his chest, and he winks at us. “Uh oh, my better half is calling, so I must obey.”

Martha and Harry rush off to Pizzageddon, a food stall that sells extra-large pizza slices. In front of the saloon-type wooden backdrop, other ladies are waiting for them. Despite their costumes, I still recognize them as members of Mom’s book club.

“Are you hungry, too?” Wyatt asks.

“Not yet. You?”

“No, even if…” Wyatt sniffs twice in the air, “…can you sense that? I’d recognize that smell, even in my sleep.”

I follow his example and the hearty, spicy flavor that fills my nostrils makes my mouth water.

“Tio Fillipo’s pozole,“ we say simultaneously.

We exchange a glance and both giggle.

Wyatt cocks his head toward the blue food truck. “Shall we?”

“Absolutely!”

We wander over to the retro caravan that the Mexican cook has been using since the festivals back when I was a child.

Wyatt whispers to me, “I can’t believe he’s still cooking. How old can he be? Like a hundred?”

“Perhaps even more,” I answer. “It must be the chiltepin he uses to flavor his soup. That pepper not only melts your face off, but also keeps you ageless, apparently.”

The old cook’s tanned face moves into a myriad of up-curving creases as he notices us approaching. “Wyatt! If it isn’t our town’s very own football hero!” He winks at me. “…and my favorite freckled troublemaker. I didn’t know you two were back in town. Where did you leave that handsome brother of yours, Ellieta?”

I smile at the nickname Tio Filippo gave me on the first day I set foot in his tiny restaurant in town. “Devon couldn’t make it, Tio. He’s getting married soon and has lots of arrangements to make.”

The cook’s mouth curls up even more. “With a nice girl from a Mexican family, I hear. Your mom gushed to me about it. I wish them all the happiness in this world.”

“Thank you,” I say.

The man’s glance jumps to Wyatt with a speed that defies his age. “And you, big man? When am I going to hear about your wedding bells?”

Wyatt shrugs. “Not sure.”

Tio Filippo clicks his tongue disapprovingly. “Kicking the ball is bueno, but a piece of leather ain’t keeping you warm at night, huh? You gotta have something besides your career.