“I know we’ve never gotten into each other’s personal lives,” he goes on before I can answer him, “but I should have said this before. If you need to go home, whenever, say the word. They should be your top priority.”
I stop walking and stare up at him, those two different reactions to him fighting for the upper hand inside my chest.
He pauses. “What?”
“I don’t know.” I shake my head. I’ve always been a straight shooter with Holland, and I’m not going to change that, so I’m going to tell him the truth. “You’re right. We haven’t gotten personal. There’s a reason for that. I’m your coach. This whole thing”—I point to where theMEMtrucks are driving down the road—“is muddying the boundaries between work and non-work. You need to be able to rely on me as your coach, and I need your respect. Getting personal jeopardizes that.”
He frowns. “But—“
I hold up my hand to stop him. I blow out a breath, feeling off balance. The tight grip of control I have on this aspect of my life is slipping ever so slightly. Because tonight, Holland has been considerate and self-aware, like maybe he thinks about people other than himself after all. Who would have thought?
I meet his gaze, and his eyes are hounding me, like he’s trying to sniff out what I’m not saying. I’d rather he not wonder. I’d rather just tell him. At least then I can own it.
“That being said,” I say slowly. “I appreciate you. I appreciateyour concern, I mean.”
“You, Mallory Walsh, appreciate me?” He grins. “I’ve gotta go write this down in my diary or something. Record it so I can look back on this day forever.”
Anddd there’s the Holland I’m used to.
“Shut up, Bradley.” I shove his shoulder.
He laughs, and we wander back to where Drew has a blazing fire going in the stone-lined fire pit in the middle of the backyard.
“There you are.” Poppy bounds over. “Come on. Wine for the ladies is inside.”
She ushers me toward the house, and Mack hands Holland a beer. I glance over my shoulder at him as Poppy hooks her elbow with mine. He lifts his beer in silent salute.
I nod, trying not to overthink everything about this night, and tuck my hands into the front pocket of his sweatshirt.
10
Practice Makes Perfect
Holland
Ihear the screaming first.
It’s Monday morning, and I’m on a group date, trying to pay attention to Belle during our individual time together. She’s attempting to convince me to re-enact the “Tale as Old as Time”dance scene fromBeauty and the Beast.
“Look at this courtyard. It’s the perfect dance floor!” she gushes.
That’s when the screaming starts. It takes me a minute to realize it’s not the little voice inside my head begging me to flee the scene.
But no. It’s actual screaming. Many women screaming.
“What’s that?” Belle frowns and cranes her neck around.
“Don’t know. But we should go check it out.” I offer her my hand, and we jog back around to the sitting area where I left the remaining ladies who we selected to come on the hiking date.
Mindy Sue, Jennah, and Britt are huddled up on one end of the sectional, looking horrified as the other three women, Cambria, Liz, and Michelle, are screaming at each other.
Then the hitting starts.
“No! He’d look better withme!”Cambria shrieks and then slaps Liz square across the face.
I spring into action, jumping between the women.
“What is going on here?” I yell.
