At my side he moves, lifting his head to rest it in the cradle of his palm. “Well, now,” he drawls, “let me see if I can help you out. I’m Ethan, and you are Fiona.”

“Har.” I give his chest a lazy smack. “You know what I mean. Or maybe you don’t.” I stroke the edge of his collarbone. “I don’t think I’ve met anyone who knows their own mind as well as you do.”

He rolls his eyes, but sets his hand on my hip, caressing and edging me closer. “Babe, I hate every fucking second of getting tatted. I hate needles with a passion, yet I get a cortisone shot after nearly every practice and game. The ones in the hands skeeve me out so badly I have to look away or risk fainting.”

At this I take his hand in mine. It isn’t pretty: battered, swollen knuckles; scrapes and callouses; the middle finger crooking inward as if it’s been broken one too many times. A warrior’s hand.

Those long, scarred fingers wrap over my smaller ones with a gentle hold, and I lift his hand to my lips to kiss his reddened knuckles.

Behind the veil of his lashes, he watches me do it. “I hate those things, and yet look at me. Tatted, pierced, and a pro football player. Fact is, I run to the pain. Part of me gets off on it. So while I might know my mind, I’ve clearly got my own issues.”

He doesn’t look embarrassed by this. No, his eyes shine in good humor. Which makes all the difference and only proves my point. He knows himself in a way I don’t know myself; I envy that.

The blunt tip of his thumb, the one with a bruised nail, brushes the crest of my cheek. “Why do you ask about knowing yourself, Fi?”

With a sigh, I fall back against the pillows and stare up at my ceiling. “I don’t want to go back to work.”

“So don’t.”

A loud snort blows through my lips. “It isn’t that simple.”

“Course it is. You’re miserable there. So leave.”

A glance his way reveals that he’s absolutely serious.

“This from a football player? I thought you guys were always about never giving up. Mental and physical endurance is key, blah, blah, blah.”

He flashes a quick smile. “Blah, blah, blah? Nice to know we players are so eloquent.” His smile falls. “You also forgot ‘Don’t play the game unless you’re one-hundred-percent commented.’ Which really just means, if you don’t love it, get out. It isn’t worth the pain, otherwise.”

“If I leave, she wins.”

Dex looks at me for a moment with that stare of his that I always feel down to my bones. When he speaks, his voice is steady, thoughtful. “Winning is a subjective thing, Fi.”

“Again, I can’t believe a professional football player would say that.”

He chuckles. “If anyone is an expert on the subject of winning and losing, it’s an athlete. Last year we lost out on the NFC championship based on one loss. On a fucked-up foul that the refs got wrong, made a bad call. That shit burned, Fi.” His expression stays calm, but his eyes fill with ire. “Even now, when I think about it I want to punch something. And you better believe those fuckers on the other team taunted us without shame. Didn’t matter that they won on a technicality. Scoreboard was all they needed.”

Slowly, he reaches out and cups my jaw. “Darlin’, that shit happens all the time. I know from personal, painful experience that winning doesn’t necessarily make a person the best. Sometimes, it just makes them lucky.”

“Well,” I say, still full of petulance and resentment, “that bitch will get even luckier if I leave.”

“Nope. Hell, one day she might become the most successful designer in New York—”

“Not helping.”

“But it will be based on nothing but her own insecurity. While you?” He leans in and gives me a soft, lingering kiss. “Have true talent and will be happily serviced by yours truly.”

I have to laugh at that. But it dies quickly, and I flop an arm over my hot forehead. “You don’t understand.”

“So educate me.”

“I’m a fuck-up.”

“Fi…”

“It’s true. Almost every plan I start—and believe me, I always have a plan—goes off the rails at some point.”

“You’re describing the majority of the population, Cherry.”

“Do your plans fail?”

Dex’s wide mouth goes tight as if he’s annoyed at me. But the look he gives me is tender. The bed creaks as he pulls me into his embrace, tucking me against his side. “I planned to stay away from you.” The rough tip of his thumb caresses my lower lip. “Best failed plan of my life.”

“Ethan.” His heart beats strong against the wide wall of his chest, and I give him a soft kiss there. Sighing, I rest my cheek on his shoulder. “It’s just…I’ve always dreamed big and have never been afraid to tell anyone and everyone about my big dreams. Except my dreams often change—here one day, alive and bright with all these possibilities, then dead and on to the next something new.”

I glance up at his solemn eyes. “Unfortunately my exuberance has made me into the Girl Who Cried Dreams. And my friends and family no longer believe me when I latch on to a new passion. I don’t blame them, but I’m tired of seeing people give me that tight, slightly patronizing, slightly irritated smile. I don’t want to be viewed as a quitter anymore.”