I’m using the fact that I can’t drink as an excuse, but to be honest, what I would love is to go back to Quentin’s house, watch trashy reality TV shows, and eat the chocolate-filled croissant things he made last night.
“You don’t need to drink to be in a bar. I don’t during the season.”
“Why are you even going out with the team?” I ask suspiciously. “You never do.”
“I don’t know.” He sighs. “Maybe your talk about wanting more in life yesterday got to me a little.”
Of course my good-natured sibling lecture is turning around on me.
“Well, you don’t need me to do that.” I try my best to get out of this situation.
“Come on, you could be like my wing woman. If you don’t go, then I’m not going,” he pleads, twisting my insides with guilt.
I told him he should want more out of life and here he is attempting to do that. He’s my brother, who has looked out for me all my life and has supported me no matter what. I need to do this for him.
“Fine,” I groan.
His face lights up, and it strikes me then how little I see that look on his face. “Perfect. Wait for me in the family lounge so we can head there together,” he says, then turns and heads down the hallway without giving me a chance to argue that I can meet him there.
I head in the opposite direction toward the family lounge when a hand wraps around my arm and gently pulls me into a storage room.
“You know, you’d never make a good criminal. You’re far too gentle,” I tease as I look up into Quentin’s hazel eyes. God, they’re pretty. I hope Blueberry gets his eyes.
Both of his hands land on either side of my small bump as he ignores my jab, and his eyes move down my body with careful precision.
I remain silent, save for my heavy breathing because we’re not supposed to be touching one another.
His thumbs move back and forth against my jersey as he hones in on my bump with a ragged sigh. “I’m sorry. I know we agreed no touching, but I, I need this.”
Slowly, his eyes make their way back up to me, and the way he’s looking at me makes me want to look away. Because the look on his face right now, it’s too much for me to handle. It’s a mixture of pain and worry, and if I had to guess, it’s because of what happened during the game.
“It’s fine,” I say hoarsely.
“Are you really okay?” he chokes out.
I clear the emotion in my throat with a cough. “I am. He didn’t hit my belly or anything, merely landed on my shoulder.”
Which is a bit sore, but it’s nothing I’m worried about, so I don’t want to stress him for no reason.
He drops his forehead to mine and breathes a sigh of relief. The warm air brushes against my lips, making them part.
“If he had hurt you or the baby…” he trails off, swallowing as he attempts to control himself.
“Don’t get yourself worked up about what-ifs. We’re all good here.” I try to sound like my joking self, but my voice falters at the end, my body still stunned by our proximity.
His forehead lifts off mine, but he remains close, our noses nearly touching as he stares at me. The hands on my belly drift to the hem of my jersey that he slowly begins to lift, then pauses, looking at me for consent.
“You can.” My voice is softer than it normally is as he lifts my jersey up so that my belly is exposed.
Quentin drops down to his knees, both of his hands on the outside of my small bump.
My breath hitches while my skin prickles at the contact. I haven’t felt his hands on my bare skin in what feels like forever, and the touch has my body swirling with desire already.
I know it’s wrong and there are a million reasons we can’t cross the line, but I never said I wouldn’t still be affected by his touch.
His eyes flick up to mine, letting me know he heard my breathy sigh. Briefly, his eyes shut, then he lowers my jersey back down and stands, not letting things go any further.
I swallow and do my best to shake off the feelings coursing through me.
