Page 18 of A Fighting Chance

I place my hand in his, letting him help me out of the truck with all his southern chivalry. “Thank you.”

Inside, we make our way to a table and place our orders. Over dinner, we discuss the farm, how I grew up on it, how he grew up. Conversation comes easy—scary easy. At some point, I realize this feels like a date and I almost freak out. But it’s nothing a shot or two of sake can’t fix.

By the time we make it back to the farm, I feel comfortable and warm. We walk up the stairs and I head toward the bathroom.

“Thank you again for your help, and for dinner,” I say. Despite my insistence on paying for myself, Gentry wouldn’t have it—not that I’m surprised.

“Anytime,” he says, and something about the ease in which it rolls off his lips leads me to believe he really means it.

With the bathroom door shut behind me, I walk to the mirror and assess my face. My cheeks are pink from the sun and the saké. With no makeup on, it’s only exaggerated. Departing the bathroom a few minutes later, after I’ve rinsed my face and brushed my teeth, I notice a small note stuck to my door again.

I pull it off and step into my room, opening it quickly, unable to control the excitement bubbling over.

I cannot decide if you aim to be

an angel or devil in that dress.

Oh how the wind picks it up,

teases and torments.

Will you come to me?

Still the ache underneath this moon?

Fuck.

Seven

Lyla

I readthe note two more times and fold it back. Then I open it and read it again. His words leave me breathless. My heart is pounding hard in my chest and I don’t know what I’m supposed to do right now. Or what I want to do.

What does this mean?

Okay, Lyla. You know what it means.

Does he want me to come to his room? Like…tonight?

Surely, we can’t have sex tonight.

I mean, we could…but that sounds like it could get so complicated…

Okay, I need to stop having a conversation with myself and make up my mind.

I pull my hair down from my messy bun while my thoughts wander further down the rabbit hole. I stand in front of the mirror and comb my fingers through my long locks, attempting to calm the waves a little and assessing myself. Even sun-kissed, I’ve always had pale skin. My hazel eyes and dark hair are a stark contrast. I pull the straps of my dress down and let it fall to the floor, leaving only my panties behind. I reach for sleep shorts and a large oversized sweatshirt, which hangs off my shoulders. I put socks on my feet and grab the notes, intending to get to the bottom of this little game.

I don’t know if I’m mad, flattered, insulted, or a little of each, but I’m hoping I figure that out by the time I knock on his door—or at least by the time he answers. I move around the banister to the other side of the hall and stand in front of his door, my fist hesitating before I summon the courage to actually knock. Three brisk taps and I wait.

I hear shuffling inside but get no response. I hear more shuffling and then I see shadows of feet under the door and I brace myself.

He pulls his door open wide, leaning against the door frame with his forearm, immediately making eye contact and smiling.

But I’m not smiling. I can’t divert any efforts away from trying not to assault his body with my eyes because Gentry is shirtless again. His gray sweatpants sit low on his hips and the elastic from his Calvin Klein underwear is showing and that’s all I notice. There’s no focus left for things like smiles.

“Are you always shirtless?” I gruff, sounding more annoyed than I intend to. But heisalways shirtless. And I mean, honestly, no one needs to be naked this much.

“Only when I’m in the privacy of the bathroom or my own room,” he states, and he has a point. It’s not like he’s been walking around in common areas like this. We’re not in the kitchen. He’s in his space.