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

But I couldn’t help it. Looking into Ellie’s green eyes is like standing on a dangerously high cliff where you know you shouldn’t peer down, but you still let your gaze drift into the abyss.

She slowly lifts her chin. Just before her green irises meet mine, her gaze stops on something behind me.

Her body goes rigid, and her eyes widen.

“Ellie, what is it?” I inquire.

She doesn’t answer immediately, but when she does, her soprano is so low, I need to lean closer to hear her.

“Wyatt, I think you should turn around,” she mumbles. She clears her throat, and her next words come out stronger. “Now, please.”

Chapter 29

(Ellie)

The moment I notice Wyatt’s mother and realize who she’s with, my blood freezes.

What should I do?

“Ellie, what is it?” Wyatt’s face moves into a worried glance.

He must think it’s the emphasis he put on “like” that’s freaking me out. To be fair, his half-confession is probably part of the equation.

But while I’m confused about what he hinted at—or more precisely about the sensations his word unleashed in me—that puzzlement dwarfs beside the panic I feel at the thought of how Wyatt will feel once he sees who his mother is sharing a pack of popcorn with right now.

For a second, I contemplate distracting Wyatt with a kiss.

This would keep him from seeing his parents and have the added benefit of satisfying the longing brewing in my body.

But tasting his lips would be reckless. It’d cripple my reason, and I can’t have that. Not when I’m with Wyatt.

Besides, it was my own suggestion for Wyatt to talk to his mother about his childhood, and a kiss would only delay the inevitable. Wyatt’ll eventually realize his father’s back in town and busy rekindling things with his mother.

I draw in a breath and snap my gaze to Wyatt.

The strength of my voice matches my desire to put Wyatt through this—barely a whisper. “Wyatt, I think you should turn around.”

He bends to me, and his breath heats my neck.

I steel my nerves and add, “Now, please.”

Wyatt gives me a curious brow lift but obeys my command.

As his eyes lock on his mother, his shoulders go rigid. “What the h—”

Wyatt’s yell gets swallowed in the clapping of the dancers, or maybe I can’t hear the rest of his words because he’s already darted forward. I scurry behind him as fast as possible because I don’t want him to face this situation alone.

Cristina and Mason Harrison are still standing in front of the Kettlelicious Kettle Corn where I first spotted them—entirely oblivious to the external world or what’s coming at them.

Despite my best effort, I can’t keep up with Wyatt’s trained legs, so I don’t hear his first words as he reaches his parents, but judging by his mother’s horrified expression and the popcorn bag that lands at her feet, Wyatt didn’t start the conversation in a particularly neutral tone.

Cristina’s glance is bouncing between her husband and Wyatt when I arrive. She has her son’s blond hair, only hers is tinted with a few grayish strands. She still keeps her soft waves in the same elegant chignon she used to when we were kids.

Wyatt’s father is the source of those lucky genes that predestined Wyatt to be an athlete, and when he straightens his back to meet his son’s gaze, his build becomes almost as intimidating as Wyatt’s.

But when Mason speaks, his tone contradicts his posture. He sounds almost apologetic. “This is a public dance, son. Anybody ca—”

“Anybody but you,” Wyatt says. “Didn’t I write to you to leave us alone? To never ever contact Mom again?”

His voice is categorical, though less out-of-control than I’d have expected. His chin quivers as he stares at his dad, but his fingers are relaxed, and I don’t see any throbbing on his temples.

Pride settles in my chest because I realize just how far Wyatt has come.

He might be speaking in an icy tone to his father, but before starting our therapy, he probably would’ve launched himself at Mason and handed him a jab far worse than that wide receiver had gotten.

“It’s me who called up Mason, not the other way around,” Cristina intervenes.

Wyatt’s jaw drops as his gaze darts to his mother. “Have you been with Dad all day? Is that why Martha acted so weird when I asked her where you were? You didn’t go to Prescott with Wendy, did you?”

Cristina’s hand fiddles with the top button of her red shirt. She looks so embarrassed at her son’s question that I immediately feel sorry for her.

“I didn’t want to deceive you, son, and neither did Martha. She probably didn’t know what to tell you but wanted to stay loyal to me.”

This makes sense. It’s the kind of lie Cora or Hope would tell for me. But I wonder if, in her heart, Martha wanted Wyatt to discover his father’s return, and if that’s why she looked so torn when she spotted us at the dance earlier.

Wyatt narrows his eyes at his mother. “You promised me you’d stay away from him.”

Cristina shakes her head. “No. I only promised that I wouldn’t be sucked back into the same nightmare again. And I won’t. Your father has changed.”

Wyatt pulls in a loud breath. “You let me assume you wouldn’t speak to him.”

“Son,” Mason interjects, “I was near Kingman when your mother called, so I—”

Wyatt throws a sharp glance at his father. “I’m talking to Mom.”

Mason ignores his son’s frosty remark. “I’m a changed man, Wyatt. I know it’s hard for you to believe, but I am. I’ve completely sobered up. I’m—”

“I don’t care.” Wyatt shakes his head. “Just because you don’t drink booze, it doesn’t make you a better man or a worthy father.” His voice is filled with resentment, but there’s a clear, painful edge in it, too, as if he’s sorry for feeling the way he does about his father.

“You’re right. Absolutely right,” Mason mumbles. He rubs his cheeks with both palms, and his fingers leave faint white lines on