She lifts her chin, not quite to its normal haughty heights, but enough that I can tell she’s still holding back.

“Okay,” she answers.

“Okay?”

“Yes, okay. I accept your apology.”

But she doesn’t look like it. I’d thought if she accepted my apology, we’d be kissing by now. Why aren’t we kissing now?

“Damn it. I’m fucking this up, aren’t I? Just . . . read this, okay? I wrote it during the game, and it says it better than I can.”

I shove the spiral at her, no finesse, no charm, just fear and panic and desperation. She opens it to the first page, and her eyebrows furrow.

“Oh, not that one. That’s the only notes I ever took in my Spanish class. It starts on the next page. Sorry.”

She flips the page, and I can’t help but feel like she’s holding my heart in her hands, and it’s just as fragile as the paper between her fingers, just as easy to tear in two.

Chapter 29

Nell’s To-Do List

• Yeah . . . I’ve got nothing.

His handwriting is messy. Slanted and hurried, and it’s nearly as hard to decipher as he is. My hands are shaky, and my heart won’t work properly no matter how many calming breaths I take.

Ways to Prove that you love Nell De Luca

1. Tell her. Every day. Three times a day. As many times as it takes.

2. Never choose anything else over her. Not football. Not your own stubbornness. Nothing.

3. Be there whether she wants to go skinny-dipping or wants to study. Make sure she knows that she’s the adventure, not anything else.

4. Always tell her how amazing her food is (okay . . . that one is partly for you, too, because it means you get to keep eating her food).

5. Give her the best sex of her life (also works out pretty well for you).

6. Teach her whatever she wants to know, and learn from her, too. She’s a fucking genius.

7. Tell her she’s a fucking genius. All the time. When she doubts it and when she doesn’t. Just tell her.

8. Never walk away after a fight. Don’t. Fucking. Do it.

9. Prove you love her (preferably in bed, but that’s optional) once a day. Three times a day. As many times as it takes.

10. Be worthy of her. Not by playing football or pretending to be something you’re not. By being the man she makes you feel like you are. Strong and smart and kind and so damn lucky to have her.

I don’t know whether to cry or laugh or both as I read his words. And the fist around my heart is shaking, or maybe that’s just me. I look up at him, and he has his hand tucked behind his head, watching me from over by the Ping-Pong table. Longing and fear are etched all over his face. He’s terrified of what I’ll say.

And he didn’t play today, and he wrote me a list, and he says he loves me. Or he wrote it anyway.

“Well,” I say, my voice scratchy with pent-up tears. I take a few steps toward him. “Let’s hear number one, then.”

He crosses to me in two strides and pulls me up into his arms. His muscles wind tight around my middle, and he presses his forehead into mine like he can’t get close enough. “I love you. I’m so sorry, Nell. You might have reminded me of Lina in the beginning, but what I feel for you is so much bigger than that. So much better. I love you. You’re a fucking genius. I love you.”

“I love you, too.” The words shake coming out of my mouth, so I repeat them. More for me, really, than him. I love him. This is not beyond me. This feeling, the way something in me feels too big for my body, the need to bring him closer and closer . . . that’s normal. I’m normal.

He turns and sits me right on the edge of the Ping-Pong table beside us, and covers my mouth with his.

Okay, maybe we’re not entirely normal. But I like our kind of normal.

His mouth pushes and pulls and dances with mine, and he promises against my lips, “As many times as it takes. You’re not gonna doubt me, sweetheart. I’ll make sure there’s no room for doubt, not when I’m done.”

I drag my hands over his back, tracing the muscles, reminding myself that he’s here. That this is real. He drops his face into the crook of my neck and groans. His big hands run the length of my thighs, to my knees, and then back to the curve of my behind. He cups me there, squeezing and pulling until I’m right at the very edge of the table, and then he presses his hips into mine.

His hands glide up to grip the bottom of my shirt, and he starts tugging it up.

“Mateo, there are people outside. A lot of people.”

He kisses me hard, driving his tongue between my lips a few times before he says, “Don’t care.”

“Mateo—”

“Keep saying my name. It’s only going to make me more determined to have you.”

He gives my shirt another tug, and then he’s pulling it up and over my head. He groans and bends farther to drag his lips over the swells of my cleavage. I fight to keep him from distracting me, but it’s hard, especially when he tugs down one cup on my bra and sucks the tip of my breast into his mouth. My back arches involuntarily, and I clutch the back of his head.

“You kicked all those people out. If we don’t open the door soon, everyone is going to know what’s happening in here.”

“Good. I want them to know.” He slides my bra straps down to my elbows and peels both cups down. His fingers dance over the newly revealed skin, stroking softly enough that it tickles and my skin tightens, and oh God, who knew that light, simple touch would go straight to my sex? “I nearly went crazy when I saw that guy holding your ankles outside. If I hadn’t been so worried about getting you alone, I would have tackled him.”

“That would not have been smart. Your concussion—”

“You can be the smart one in this relationship. I’ll settle for being the one that gets to worship these.” He cups both of my breasts, lifting and kneading. He replaces one hand with his mouth and skims down my stomach to flick open the button on my jeans. “I’ll settle for being the one who gets to peel these off of you. You don’t know how badly I want to touch you. I need it.”

I want to resist. It’s barbaric and embarrassing to do this with everyone outside. But he’s not the only one who needs to touch.

“We have to be quiet,” I say. “It’s bad enough that they know I’m in here. I don’t want them to hear it, too.”