She frowned. “Are you serious?”
“I don’t have time. I read our playbook, football-related articles, and scouting reports. Does any of that count?”
“Umm, no. You really need to broaden your horizons.”
“Okay. What was the last book you read?” I asked.
“Brewing in Love by Riley Baxter. It’s so good, and I highly recommend it. I think you’d like it.”
“If that’s a romance story, I’ll pass. You got any non-fiction to recommend?”
“What’s wrong with romance stories?” she questioned.
“Nothing, I guess. It’s just not my thing.”
“You’ve never read a romance book in all your almost forty years?”
“Never even thought about it.”
“Dang. I might need to rethink this whole thing.”
“You can rethink it as much and for as long as you want, as long as the end result doesn’t affect what we’re building. Next question.”
She huffed as she pulled out another card.
“Have you ever had your heart broken?”
“Damn. That escalated quickly. You answer first.”
“I already told you my sob story with Stokely’s father. Your turn.”
I sat quietly for a moment, as my thoughts went to Olivia. We dated during my early thirties. I proposed, and our engagement lasted less than three months.
“I don’t think I was heartbroken, but I was hurt,” I finally said.
“Tell me more.”
“About six years ago, I was engaged for three months. We never made it to the altar.”
“Did you cheat on her?” she asked in an accusatory tone.
“It’s probably second nature to assume the man cheated or did something wrong, but no, I didn’t cheat. She claimed she’d changed her mind about us but married another man a few months after our breakup. I’ve always wondered if she was the one cheating.”
“Wow. That wasn’t what I expected to hear. How did that not break your heart?”
“Like I said, I was hurt like hell, and my ego was bruised like a muthafucka because I’d never been dumped. I don’t think I was heartbroken, though.”
“Damn. I would’ve been?—”
The ringing of her doorbell interrupted her. We exchanged a curious look because we weren’t expecting anyone. The doorbell sounded again, followed by a female voice shouting, “Skye, I know you’re in there. Open this damn door before I let myself in.”
“Shit,” slipped from her mouth.
“Is that Nyomi?” I questioned, and she nodded slowly. “I guess the cat’s outta the bag, huh?”
“I guess so, with her nosy ass.”
I got up to answer the door while Skye remained on the couch. As soon as I opened the door, Nyomi was on ten.