Page 25 of The Way We Touch
Reaching overhead, she opens the cabinet door, but I step up quickly, taking the plates from her hands and putting them on the shelf where they belong. My chest brushes against her side, and she steps away with a light laugh.
“Such a gentleman. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” I grin down at her, and I notice a light bruise on her upper arm. “What happened here?”
“Oh…” She quickly covers it with her hand almost like she’s embarrassed. “It’s nothing. I… uh, caught it on a door knob in the restaurant. Moving too fast.”
I nod, wondering why it feels like she’s not telling me the truth. Then I dismiss the thought. Why would she lie about it?
Still, her mood shifts, and she reminds me a little of her brother Zane—suddenly wanting to escape.
“Well…” She claps her hands together, taking a step towards the hallway.
“What happened to your dad?” I don’t move, hoping by giving her space, she’ll decide to stay a little longer.
I’d like her to stay a little longer. I like talking to her. I like watching the way the light plays off her soft hair, the way her full lips move when she speaks. I like the light in her almond eyes that are sexy and sweet at the same time.
I want to change our memories from me falling out on the floor or being afraid of dolls to something a little more… interesting.
“Well,” She exhales heavily. “The doctors said it was a stroke, but he’d been having memory problems, irritability, headaches…”
My stomach pits. I know those symptoms well—we all do, and it’s scary as fuck. “CTE?”
Chronic Traumatic Encephalopathy, or the football disease. A brain condition thought to be linked to repeated blows to the head.
“Nobody wanted to call it that, because then we’d have a case.” An edge is in her tone, and I get it. Families suffer as much as we do when it comes to injuries.
“It’s a tough sport. We know a lot more now than we did back then.”
“Yet they all continue to play.” She nods, then she seems to shake it away, looking up at me brightly. “It’s why I only date golfers.”
“What?” The word jumps from my mouth, a cross between a laugh and a protest and a few ticks louder than our conversation.
Her pretty eyes widen, and a small dimple appears at the side of her mouth as she fights a smile. “Do you have a problem with that, Mr. Murphy?”
You bet your ass I have a problem with it, but I’m not about to say it out loud.
“Not at all, Miss Bradford. Date who you want. I just can’t imagine somebody like you settling down with a golfer.”
“What’s wrong with golf? It’s a sport that requires skill and patience, and it involves zero physical contact.” She counts on her fingers. “I don’t know a single golfer who’s sustained a concussion playing the sport.”
“If you call that a sport,” I quip.
“How many golfers are at risk of getting CTE?”
Holding up my hands, I straighten. “You got me. I’m just saying, from what I’ve observed, you’re not shy about physical contact.”
And it’s sexy as fuck.
“I’m not getting hit in the head, and I’m not watching them get hit in the head either.”
My brow furrows. “You don’t watch the games?”
She shakes her head no. “It’s too hard after what happened to our dad and knowing the risks. I wish they’d all retire, but you can’t tell my brothers what to do.”
I’m not sure how I feel about this new information. No, I do know how I feel about it. I don’t like it one bit.
Gentling my tone, I take a step closer. “Life is uncontrollable, Dylan. I could walk out the door tomorrow and get hit by a car.”