Sighing heavily, she rests her head against my chest, knocking it a few times with her forehead. “You’re killing me, Hayden.”
“I know but there have been too many times where the physical has taken the lead in developing a relationship and the communication has lacked. I don’t want that with you.”
“I can understand that.” She bites her bottom lip, her thoughts running a mile a minute in that pretty head of hers. “But what about . . . you know . . . when you have to leave, go back to Philly?”
I nod. “This is for then. So when I do go back, we’ll be okay. Because I can see a future with you, Adalyn, and that’s why I want to build a solid foundation with you, something that can last. I want that chance. With you.”
“So when you return to Philly, you want to stay in contact with me?”
“Fuck yes, I do. And I’m going to have you sitting front and center at as many games as you can get to, especially since I’m trying to make hockey your favorite sport.”
“I don’t know.” She smiles. “That’s going to be one hell of a task to accomplish. Think you can handle it?”
“I know I can.” I press a quick kiss against her lips and then slap her ass, making her squeal. With a wink, I say, “Go get changed for bed, we have some making out to do.”
“Making out?” she asks, adding in a lift of that well-defined eyebrow of hers.
Acting stern and pointing my finger at her, I say, “Just making out. If you start with your wandering hands, I’m going to jet out of here, taking my body warmth with me.”
“That’s just cruel.”
“Then keep it in your pants, Adalyn.” Smiling wickedly, I go to the living room to grab my overnight bag, reprimanding myself with the same warning.
Keep it in your pants, Holmes.
For the love of God, keep it in your pants.
Chapter Ten
ADALYN
Waiting impatiently, I tap my foot, check my phone for what seems like the thousandth time, and stare down the entrance of the movie theater.
Where the hell is he?
After dating Hayden for three weeks, I’ve become accustomed to his habits, and being late isn’t one of them. He’s always on time, annoyingly on time, to the point that I need to be ready ten minutes early so I’m not interrupted mid curl of my hair when he arrives.
Another habit? He likes to press his thumb against my pulse, and whether it’s my neck or my wrist, it’s like a sweet spot to him.
He also groans loudly when I happen toaccidentallydry-hump him.
He’s also really good at trapping me against a wall, the counter, a door, even poles, invading my space with his luscious scent and alpha-male stance, only to press the lightest of kisses against my lips and then keep walking.
God, the man is infuriating but also . . . sweet and sexy.
With one tiny kiss on my lips, he can make the earth shatter beneath me, cause my knees to quake, and leave me melting into a puddle on the floor.
It’s scary what one touch can do to me, how a whisper in my ear can cause me to break into a cool sweat. Not to mention how alarming it is when I catch a glimpse of him, of that smile, of those dark eyes, the way I can feel and hear myself visibly sigh. It seems unhealthy to be so enigmatically affected by a man, but there is no way I can consider walking away, not when I wake up every morning to a text from him, or when he has lunch sent to me at the hospital, or when he’s sitting on the steps in front of my place, with flowers in hand, waiting for me to get off work.
I know one thing for sure: he’s ruining me for all other men, because he’s the exception. He’s the kind of guy that’s one in a million.
The kind of guy you dream of.
The kind of guy you take home to your family.
The kind of guy you hope your brothers and sister like as much as you do . . .
The door swings open and a frantic Hayden searches the lobby, hair twisted and pulled from a worrying hand. When he spots me, his face softens. He makes his way through the crowd of moviegoers, carefully dodging their large buckets of popcorn and oversized cups of soda.
