“You sure? Because I’m feeling protective.”
I try not to smile but it’s hard not to. Her personality is contagious. “Go home, Jenna. Make sure to lock up.”
Her focus lingers on me for a second. “Don’t stay too late.”
“I won’t. It’s my fault for canceling on him yesterday.”
She gives me a daring look and I shoo her out.
A minute later Parker’s body fills the doorway.
Dark jeans. White untucked fitted, button-down, perfect for his frame. Hair messy like he’s been driving with the windows down. No hat. No pads. No armor except the tension I see in his jaw.
His eyes land on mine. Then my mouth and back to my eyes. Suddenly the room feels small.
“You’re late again.”His mouth tips. “And you changed my appointment to a nighttime slot so you could go ice skating. Guess we’re both living recklessly.”
I should tell him to sit down and start the session, instead I say, “Come in before Jenna comes back and tackles you. She’s very protective over me.”
“Does she know your secret?” He shuts the door behind him and walks into the heart of the room. His gaze moves over the familiar neutral furniture, the soft light from the lamp, the framed abstract print above the bookshelf behind him.
I let out a half-laugh. “I don’t have secrets.”
“I liked you better at the rink. You were more open, relaxed,” he scoffs.
I lift a brow. “I didn’t ask if you liked me.”
He gestures with his hands. “Just giving you feedback.”
“Let’s keep it to football.”
He sneaks a glance at the chair but doesn’t sit yet. “That’s not what we need to talk about.”
A thread tightens around my heart. Somehow I keep my voice even. “You text like a man who thinks mystery is charming.”
“And you left me onreadwithout responding. Probably overanalyzing my punctuation.”
“Analyzing is what psychologists do.”
“You’re a performance consultant. You said it yourself.” His lips twitch and I hate that I notice.
I hate more that he’s right.
I look down at my laptop, close it and gesture to the chair. “Sit, please.”
This time he does, but there’s nothing relaxed about it. His knees spread, enough to lean forward, resting his elbows on his thighs and his hands clasped together like he’s keeping something inside.
Sitting across from him, I cross one leg over the other. “What did you want to talk about?”
His eyes narrow, thoughtfully. “You.”
My pulse stutters. I never want to talk about myself. Ever.
“That’s not why you’re here.”
“You sure?”
“Positive.”