That Thing Called Love. Susan Andersen

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      She wasn’t wrong, dammit.

      He hated to admit it, but avoiding the truth wouldn’t change the facts.

      “Look, I don’t disagree,” he offered, stopping less than half a foot from her. “I’ve been expecting too much too soon, and relying on your efforts without putting enough of my own into the things I need to do to transition Austin from hating my guts to at least tolerating me. But it must be as painfully clear to you as it is to me that I’m crashing and burning here. So, if I promise to head back to my room—” even though the thought made him feel itchy and confined “—to put some serious thought into the matter, could you see your way clear to steering me in the right direction? Like...” What, genius? Then it came to him. Duh. “He played great in practice today, for instance, and I’d love to see him in action during his actual games. But I don’t know when they are.”

      “I’ll make you a schedule,” she said, then hesitated. “And I suppoooose—” the word was drawn out with palpable reluctance “—it would be okay if you wanted to sit with Tasha and me at the next game.”

      He grinned. “That would be great! Thank you.”

      She gave him a little smile in return, free from the lack of enthusiasm she’d just displayed. For a moment he thought they might have an honest-to-God rapport.

      Then Jenny stiffened. “Well. I need to get back to work. I’ll get you that schedule when I get a minute. Meanwhile—” she shot him an I-mean-business look “—get busy on more ideas. One-trick ponies only get you so far down the road.”

      “Yes, ma’am,” he said. “I’m heading to my room to do that right this minute.” He supposed kissing her, even if only in gratitude for her help, probably wasn’t appropriate. He stepped back instead. “Thanks again.”

      Her shoulders twitched. “Sure.”

      Jake left her office, but only got as far as the hallway outside before he halted. He could not face going back to his room.

      So, big deal, head outdoors. Or...

      He snapped upright as two thoughts occurred to him. Not one, but two actual productive ideas. That made a total of three in the past few minutes.

      He’d been concentrating too hard on the end goal instead of on the smaller steps that might get him there. Yes, he’d have to accomplish his first idea before he could think about implementing the second, but a faint, relieved smile quirked his mouth.

      Because as he headed back toward the inn’s small lobby, he finally felt like his usual, competent self.