I blink. “This is historical.”
Posey shields her eyes from the sun with the palm of her hand, and I can see her brows rise.
She doesn’t say another word.
“It’s a historical with history in it,” I explain in case she’s too dense to figure it out.
“Yeah, I’m aware that the historical novel has history in it. I’ve read that book at least a dozen times.”
I hope she doesn’t get any ideas about starting a book club to discuss it; what the hero and heroine are up to, what the author’s motivation was for the plot, why it was set in Scotland and not England, and why the characters finally bang when they bang. Oh. And how horrible his family treats the heroine once they get married.
“What are you doin’ home?” I finally ask her, curious. “Isn’t it one o’clock?” Don’t schools go until five in the afternoon or something?
“Um. It’s Saturday?”
Saturday? Well, don’t that beat all. “Shit. My days are runnin’ together now that I’m not allowed anywhere in public and am stuck in this house.”
She rolls her eyes. “You’ve literally been here like,threedays.”
I squint up at her. “You sayin’ that’s not enough time for me to go stir-crazy?”
“All I’m saying is that it’s three days, and you’re acting like you’ve been locked up for three months.”
“I’m not used to not having anything to do.”
“Totally get that. But don’t be so dramatic.”
Me, dramatic? “If you were a big dude, I’d be running plays with you. Found a football in the shed when I was cleaning everything out.”
Posey appears insulted. “News flash, I know how to throw and catch a football. You haven’t cornered the market on footballing.”
I laugh, the hammock rocking back and forth. “You’re tiny. And I doubt you can catch any ball I’d throw to you.”
She rears back as if I’ve insulted her. “Excuse me? You don’t think I can catch a football because I’m agirl?”
Okay, I’ve absolutely insulted her. “Darlin’, not the way I throw a football. It has nothin’ to do with the fact that you’re female.”
Now her hands are on her hips, and she’s glaring—that much I can tell.
“Wanna make a bet?”
I laugh again because she’s adorable, and she thinks she’s tough and can catch a football. “I’m not makin’ any bets with you. It would be like me sayin’ I could come teach your class for a day—which we both know I couldn’t do. I’d suck at it, and you’d win.”
Posey is petite, probably doesn’t even reach the top of my shoulder—not even in heels—so it cracks me up that she’s posturing, wanting to show off.
No way am I going to throw a football at her the same way I’d throw one to Jack Jennings—full speed and spiraling—because it would hurt her.
Hell, she might even bust up one of her pretty little nails.
Don’t need that on my conscience.
“Come on,” she says. “Bet me.”
“No.” I raise the book so I don’t have to look at her anymore, blocking my face with the cover. “Go away.”
“Fine.” I hear the huffiness in her voice. “You just don’t want to get beat by a girl.”
My chuckle only pisses her off even more. “Posey, that reverse psychology might work on your kids, but it ain’t gonna work on me.”