“I’m not gonna faint,” I tell him, even as my knees wobble a little. “I’m a delicate flower, but notthat delicate.”
He rolls his eyes, but there’s this tiny twitch at the corner of his mouth that makes me want to poke it. “Says the girl who did seven pirouettes on a sprained tendon because she didn’t want to lose first cast.”
“It was eight,” I correct, and he huffs out a sound that’s almost a laugh.
The parking lot is empty except for a few battered pickups and a single white van with cartoon wolf decals on the side. There’s a string of lights stapled along the roof of the taco shack, buzzing with a thousand insects, and a couple of faded plastic tables. The air smells of caramelized onions and slow-cooked meat.
We ditch our helmets on the seat and I stretch, arching my back until I hear a quiet pop. “Stop staring,” I say, heat crawling up my cheeks as I tug the borrowed jacket around myself. “You’re gonna give me a complex.”
“Not a complex,” he says, voice dropping. “More like a reason to throw you over my shoulder and haul you inside.”
The second he says it, my brain flashes to the last time he actually did that. I’d stolen his phone to see what new techy shit he had on there. He’d just picked me up and carried me around the kitchen until I was shrieking with laughter, but when he finally set me down, his hands lingered a second too long at my waist. I remember that even more than I remember the phone.
I shake out the memory before it can settle. “I can walk, you know. I’m not made of glass.”
He shrugs, grinning. “Yeah, but you’re fun to pick up. Like those squishy stress balls, but cuter.”
“I’m going to slug you.” I try to sound threatening, butit’s impossible when he’s doing that shit-eating grin. He’s got a dimple, which is so unfair, and it always comes out when he’s winning.
“You ever notice how every threat you make just sounds like foreplay?” he says, voice so low it’s almost a growl. My face goes nuclear.
“I—shut up,” I stammer, but he just laughs, the sound deep and real. We pass through the haze of grill smoke into the tiny taqueria, and the guy behind the counter perks up when he sees Ramsey.
“Back again! The usual?” the man asks.
“Four asada, two pastor, extra lime,” Ramsey recites, then looks at me for confirmation.
I’m not even embarrassed anymore that he knows my order better than anyone, including my own boyfriend. “And a horchata.”
He adds it without looking away from me. “And a horchata.”
We eat in silence, comfortable silence, and that’s one of my favorite things. If I want to talk, he’ll talk with me. Ramsey doesn’t usually talk unless he’s absolutely got something to say, but for me, he’ll fucking listen to all the gossip, add his own little opinions and give me the rundown on the latest hockey boy bullshit. It’s literally the best. But when I just want to be quiet, eat, and decompress, he lets me. He truly is my best friend.
We finish eating, and I’m so full I could die happy. He puts his hand out for me, palm up, and I take it, letting him pull me to my feet. He holds onto my hand way longer than necessary as we walk back to the bike, fingersinterlocked. I drag my feet a little, and when he looks back, I make a face like I’m too tired to walk.
“Piggyback or bust,” I declare, and before Ramsey can react, I jump up and wrap my arms and legs around him from behind. He doesn’t stumble, just grabs my thighs with hands that could snap a grown man in two and hoists me higher. My chin rests on his shoulder, his sweat-damp skin under my cheek. I breathe in hard on purpose, making a show of it.
"You smell like a sweaty hockey bro," I say into his ear, but I don't stop inhaling. He actually smells like leather and something spicy, probably that fancy cologne his cousin Penn got him for Christmas last year. Underneath it all is just...Ramsey. A scent I could pick out blindfolded in a room full of people.
"And yet here you are, huffing me like I'm a fucking line of coke," he says, squeezing my thighs a little harder than necessary. The pressure makes something low in my belly tighten, and I have to fight the urge to squirm.
"Well, I’m waiting for you to finish walking to the bike. You’re the one who needs to do all the work; I’m just the passenger princess in this piggyback ride."
His laugh is dark and low, sending a shiver down my spine. "Reese, I'll always do all the work. No need to fucking worry about that."
The way he says it—like a promise laced with something filthy—makes my entire body flush hot. There's no mistaking the double meaning, and I’m pretty sure I can't breathe now.
Pretty sure I shouldn’t have opened that Pandora’sfreaking box, but I can’t take it back, so I just stay quiet. I know he knows what I’m doing because I can feel his silent laughter as his shoulders bunch up a little bit.
Now I just want to bury my head in my pillow and avoid this whole thing.
Good freaking luck with that.
Chapter 3
Ramsey
Ismell her perfume the second I walk through the door. That coconut and salt shit she wears that makes my dick twitch every time I catch even a hint of it. I drop my hockey bag in the entryway, the stuff inside still damp with sweat from the most brutal practice Coach has put us through this season. My muscles scream, but it's nothing compared to the low throb in my groin when I hear Reese's voice coming from the kitchen. I haven’t even laid eyes on her and I’m already over the fucking edge. Sanity, don’t fucking know her.
