Later that night, Gunner and I head over to Ashley’s place. She makes a meal fit for an entire team of football players. Fried chicken, homemade biscuits, and mashed potatoes swimming in butter—just the way I like them.

I finger the ruffled hem of her apron. “Did you make this?”

She nods happily as she sets a bowl of fried okra on the table. Those dimples of hers, the ones I find so damn sexy, appear in her cheeks. “I like to sew. The domestic arts give me a sense of purpose. I like sewing, cooking, and planting flowers.” Her smile falls a little as she wrinkles her nose. “I probably sound super old-fashioned.”

I pull her onto my lap and look out the window to check on the dogs. They’re playing tug in the backyard. “Not in the least. It’s not often people get paid to do what they love.”

Loosely wrapping her arms around my neck, she cocks her head to one side. “Does that include you?”

“I love football. Have ever since I was old enough to throw one.”

“Did you play with your dad?” she asks.

“Until the day he died,” I reply.

Sympathy covers her face. “I’m so sorry, Ryan. How old were you?”

“Twenty-two. He was sixty-one, and his heart gave out. But he got to see the very first professional game I played.” I smile at the memory of flying my seventy-year-old dad out to Phoenix. Everything was amazing to Dad—the stadium, the food, the players... everything.

“I’ve always been proud of you, son, but this beats all,” he says in his deep Georgia accent.

“I’m so glad he was able to see you play before he passed,” she says, then kisses me on the cheek. She leans her head against mine, playing with the hair at the nape of my neck. “I bet he still watches you play on the most ginormous big-screen television heaven has to offer.”

Yeah, I like to think that, too. “As much as I love you sitting on my lap, I’m starving. Mind if we eat?”

Ashley practically jumps off my lap, untying her apron as she sits beside me. She carefully folds the fabric, then places it in the chair next to her. “I have peach cobbler for dessert.”

I groan. “Trying to make my Monday weigh-in go badly for me, sweetness?”

She rolls her eyes. “Just because I made it doesn’t mean you have to eat it.”

There’s no way I won’t eat it. I’ll eat every damn thing she puts in front of me. I hand her a plate, saying, “Load it up.”

The smile she gives me makes my skintight. “But not too much,” she admonishes as I dig into my mashed potatoes. “Save room for me.”

I almost drop my fork, but quickly recover and give her a wink. “ Yes, ma’am.”

“My brothers want to meet you,” she says without preamble. “We have this dumb rule about three dates means a meet-and-greet, but you don’t have to abide by it.”

I know her family is important to her, and I feel the same way about mine. Every single one of my sisters are happily married with kids, and I’m an uncle at least ten times over. Ashley will fit right in.

But will I fit in with her family? Will they think the worst of me, because of Dean? I know I’d be ultra-protective of a sister who was hurt by some fuckwad of an athlete.

“If you want me to meet them, then I will.”

Her blue eyes widen. “But we haven’t gone out on three dates.”

Smiling, I survey the table and then her. “Pretty sure this is date number three, but honestly, we’ve been dating for months now.”

“Months?” she asks, clearly bewildered.

“Yeah, if you count those two weeks of puppy-parenting classes, plus the three weeks I spent thinking about dating you, along with our most recent dates, then the scoreboard would show I scored a two-point conversion.”

“I know you did not compare us to a football play,” she says with a scowl, but her eyes twinkle.

“Baby, you’re the best play I’ve ever made. The ultimate Hail Mary.” Grinning at the pleased astonishment on her face, I tuck back into my supper.