I don’t know what game we’re playing, but I like it. “I’m happy to see you invested. Differences aside, we’re going to have to work together this season.”
She looks down at her hands, and I wish I knew what she was thinking. On the back of her hand, though, something catches my attention, and before I realize it, I’m on my feet, rounding the desk, and wrapping my fingers around her delicate wrist.
“What is this?” I ask, inspecting the deep scratch. The skin is red and angry. This looks recent. “Is this from that cat? Did you clean this properly?”
I sound... mad? Frustrated, at least. She tries to pull her wrist back, but I hang on. She tugs again, and I let go.
“Yes, I cleaned it.” She tucks her hand beneath the sleeve of her jacket. “It’s fine. It looks worse than it is.”
I cross my arms. “Are you still feeding that cat in the alley?”
She hesitates, not looking at me. “No.”
“Jordan.”
She lifts her gaze to me, holding my eyes with defiance. “I am not feeding the cat in the alley.”
This is none of my business. Jordan is a grown woman, and it’s not my problem that she looks tired or that her coat isn’t warm enough or that some cat scratched her.
And yet, it bothers me. All of it. I take a deep breath and sigh.
My desk phone rings and I answer on speaker, both relieved and frustrated at the interruption.
“Hi, Ross.”
“Good morning, Tate.” His voice fills my office. “Is Jordan there?”
“Yep.” She holds my eyes, studying me like she isn’t sure what to make of me anymore. “I’m here.”
CHAPTER 12
JORDAN
On Friday morning,I enter Ward’s office at six-fifteen, feeling like a bag of garbage from closing the bar last night, and set another disgusting coffee on his desk.
“Good morning, Coach Ward.”
His jaw flexes. He really doesn’t like me calling him that. “Good morning, Jordan.”
He looks up from the email he’s typing and studies the reusable cup, eyes narrowing but the corner of his handsome mouth ticking up. Something fizzes in my chest as I take a seat across from his desk, forcing myself not to react.
Every morning, I bring him a disgusting coffee and watch him take a long, savoring sip of whatever truly horrific blend of syrups the barista threw in there.
“What do we have today?” He picks the drink up and sniffs it. He hasn’t shaved this morning, and dark stubble coats his sharp jaw.
It’s day three of our stupid game. He could end it with one word, one grimace, but he just smiles and thanks for me for the drinks.
That sure is something,he said yesterday.I didn’t know cucumber could taste so spicy.
And then he had lunch delivered to my office that afternoon.
Today, he takes his usual long sip, holding my eyes, before hiseyebrows go up, he looks at the drink, and makes a low noise of surprise and pleasure that goes straight between my legs.
“What is that? Marshmallow and caramel?” he asks, frowning at it, before he takes another sip, andthere. There’s that noise again. The one that makes me think of him breathing hard, above me, looking down at me with a half-glazed look in his eyes, lips parted before his eyes close and he throws his head back?—
“Glad you like it,” I say in a weird voice. My face feels warm. It’s warm in here.
It was supposed to be too sweet. I told the barista to make it way too sweet, but he actually likes it?
