“That’s very generous,” he smiles, “but no, thank you.”
I think about the noise he made when he had some of that marshmallow drink. “Come on. Help me finish mine, at least.”
“I’m good.” He takes a step back, and I take a step toward him.
“Just one little cookie.”
“Really. I can’t. Thank you, though.”
“What’s the matter, worried about your eight-pack?”
He arches an eyebrow. “Eight-pack?”
I’m so transparent, I’m practically see-through. I hold my expression aloof, even though I can feel heat spreading over my face. “Sorry, did I count wrong? Do you actually have a ten-pack?”
If anyone could, it would be him.
His eyes are bright. “It’s interesting that you’re counting at all.”
Something electric crackles between us, and I take one coin-sized cookie and dip it through the sprinkle icing before holding it in the air.
“Eat the cookie, Tate.”
He stares at it like he’s struggling and I inch it toward his mouth. His throat works.
His gaze lifts to meet mine and he leans forward half an inch, parts his lips, and takes the cookie right out of my fingers. His lips brush my fingertips and the contact rips through me, down my spine and landing low in my belly. His eyes close and he lets out a low, agonized groan that I’m going to be thinking about all night.
“Holy fuck, that’s so good,” he murmurs, and I picture things I shouldn’t. Him standing above me, eyes closed, groaning like that, head thrown back as he pushes into my mouth.
“Okay, well, glad you enjoyed it.” Heat thrums between my legs. “Goodnight.”
He gives me an odd look. “Everything okay?”
“Mhm.” My voice is way too high. “Everything’s great. I’m just tired. Really tired.”
And turned on.
“Alright.” He reaches for the door and pauses, gaze snagging on something on the floor. “You bought Phoebe a toy.”
The stupid little stick with a feather on it lies beside my shoes, untouched. I wiggled it around in front of her this morning while she looked at me with disdain, like she was embarrassed for me. Self-consciousness creeps up the back of my neck. I don’t knowwhy I keep setting myself up for rejection with that little dumpster cat.
“It was free at the grocery store with a certain purchase amount.”
I’m lying. It was seven dollars. I wandered down the pet aisle and stared at the toys for almost ten minutes before I picked this one.
“She doesn’t like it, anyway,” I say, picking at my nail. “She turned her nose up at it.” My gaze slides to the panties Tate brought me. The panties Tate wastouching. My god. “And obviously she retaliated.”
He chuckles, and it goes to some warm place behind my ribcage. He has a nice laugh. And smile. And eyes. And face.
“Keep trying,” he says, eyes on my face. “Maybe she’ll surprise you.”
I’ve detested all thenicethings about him, and yet, right now? I don’t know. I don’t know anything, anymore. I’m thinking about him too much these days.
“All set for Seattle?” he asks. We fly out tomorrow morning and meet with Yang-Hanson for a skate in the afternoon. Dinner afterwards. “Have everything you need?”
“I got the luggage that was delivered this morning, yes.” Three pieces, more than I would ever need, including a large suitcase, a small carry-on, and a weekender bag. “I think we can stop spending the team’s money. It’s not a good look.”
Especially when I take off after the playoffs.
