***
The elevator ride is quiet in the hungriest, loudest way possible.
She keeps glancing at me.
I keep pretending I don’t notice.
Her fingers brush mine.
I take her hand.
She squeezes once.
I decide I am never letting go.
The elevator doors open to my penthouse, and the moment she steps inside, her breath catches.
Floor-to-ceiling windows.
City lights spread like a glittering ocean below us.
She whispers, “Bryce, this is beautiful.”
I shrug, trying not to look like I’m dying inside. “Come here.”
I lead her to the balcony. Cold air, soft city sounds, nothing but us and the glow of downtown.
She shivers.
I take off my suit jacket and drape it over her shoulders.
“It smells like you,” she says.
“Good,” I answer.
Her cheeks flush.
She steps to the railing. “I love this.”
“It’s my spot,” I admit. “After games. After wins. After… shit days.”
“Why bring me here?” she asks softly.
I meet her eyes. “Because you make all of it make sense.”
She looks up at me with those big beautiful brown eyes.
I clear my throat, grab the champagne from inside, and attempt to open it smoothly.
Attempt.
The cork shoots across the balcony like a missile.
The champagne geysers up, sprays my shirt, hits me in the face.
Annabelle bends over laughing, absolutely done.
I wipe my face with my sleeve. “I meant to do that.”
