But my heart still recklessly ached for the thirty-five-year-old father of my best friend, who had wormed his way into our conversation and was now hovering in the doorway with a scowl. “Thought you had dinner plans with Tara,” Reed clipped. Scotty whirled around on the bench. “Sorry, Coach. Wasn’t trying to interfere.” Reed stared at me with dark eyes, his hair damp with sweat and his sleeveless dove-gray tank soaked through. I stared back at him for a beat then swallowed, averting my gaze. “Dinner sounds great, Scotty. How about that retro diner off Seventh Street?” Scotty blinked back to
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DONT EVEN 😭😭😭😭😭😭
