And then suddenly, it was as if all of the air in the world had been sucked out, and I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t make sense of who I saw in front of me. My head pounded, and the earth tilted sideways.
He hadn’t seen me yet—he was looking toward the kitchen, listening as my father called out beverage options. He answered, his voice somehow familiar and relaxed, telling Dad that he’d be fine with just some cold water.
I had to say something—I had to make him see me before my father joined us and I didn’t have a chance to—well, to let him know I was here. To give him at least some sort of head’s up, because if he recognized me in front of my dad, I was going to have a lot of explaining to do.
“Dean?” My voice came out in a croak, as though I hadn’t spoken in months.
“What are you doing here?”
I knew the answer already, but my brain was moving at a snail’s pace, and I needed some time to make sense of everything.
He turned his head, spotting me for the first time, and when his eyes met mine, I saw shock there along with disbelief.
“Willow?”
“Yeah.” I nodded, as though he needed me to confirm my identity. “It’s me.”
“Holy shit.” He took a few steps forward, and to my utter shock, he wrapped me in a tight hug that stole my breath. “I can’t believe this. Holy shit. What are the odds?”
“This is—” I pulled away from him, looking up into his face and then scanning his gray wool uniform. “Jesus, Dean, you’re a cadet?”
He swallowed, his throat working, and grinned. “Guilty. I guess that was one of those details we didn’t share . . . that night.”
“I guess so,” I echoed. “Why are you here? At my house, I mean?”
“Dinner with Coach,” he answered, as though I should’ve known. “He hosts the team dinners once a month, and then he has the rest of us over for one-on-one meals a few times a year. This one was kind of last minute.”
“Team.” I sank down onto the sofa. “So that means you play football.”
Dean gave a short laugh. “You might say that.” He paused. “The bigger question is, what areyoudoing here? You’re not a cadet?” He narrowed his eyes, teasing me as his gaze traveled down over my hoodie and leggings. “Not on the football team?”
I braced my hands on my knees. He was so laid-back, so glad to see me . . . and I was going to have to destroy that happiness. I was going to have to see the light in his eyes turn to regret and maybe even anger. My already queasy stomach flipped over.
“No.” I shook my head slowly. “I’m not a cadet or a football player. My dad’s the coach.”
“Seriously?” Dean cocked his head. “Yeah, I guess he mentioned having a daughter, now that you say it, but he never told us your name. He always says his kids are away at school.” He sat down next to me, just close enough that I could breathe in his scent, the mix of his soap and detergent and maybe a light cologne? I wasn’t sure, and it didn’t matter.
“No, I haven’t heard him talk about you, either—oh, wait a minute. What’s your last name?”
When he hesitated, I rolled my eyes. “Dude, c’mon. You knowmyfull name now. I think the jig is up. Apparently, neither one of us was fated to stay anonymous.”
“I don’t give a crap about telling you my last name—which is Lassiter, by the way. I was just . . . I don’t know. How bizarre is it that we’d meet at a party in Pennsylvania and then find out that we both live here at West Point?”
“Pretty freaky,” I agreed faintly.But it was about to get freakier.“Lassiter. Okay, yeah, I’ve heard Dad talk about you.” I tried to remember just what my father had said, but I tended to zone out when he droned on about his football team. “Wait a second. You’re the quarterback, aren’t you?” Wasn’t that what my mom had said? The quarterback was coming to dinner?
Dean nodded. “I am. I hope your dad hasn’t been cussing me out at the dinner table.”
“No, he seems to like you,” I answered absently.Now, how much longer that would last was anyone’s guess.My mind was reeling as I tried to decide how to get out the words I needed to say, to ask the questions that were even now pinging around my brain like popcorn. “Um, you told me that night that you were twenty-two. Is that true?”
“Of course, it is. Why would I lie about my age?”
“Not saying you did. Just . . . you’re a senior here, right? A—what do they call you, first classman?”
He cocked his head. “I’m a firstie, yes. Why?”
I drew in a deep breath. “There’s something we need to talk about. Something important. God, I never thought I’d see you again, I didn’t know your last name.” I rubbed my forehead. “Dean, I’m—”
“Willow? Lassiter?” My father’s voice boomed from the doorway. “What the hell’s going on here?”
