“Like what? I’m not yours, and you aren’t mine.”
He stalks toward me, and I step back on instinct. My spine hits the wall. He plants his hands on either side of my head, boxing me in, and leans in so close that his warm breath skates over my lips.
“I’m about to sound like an asshole,” he warns, as if that’s anything new, “and I’m not going to apologize for it.” His gaze is wild, and I wait with bated breath for whatever he’s going to say next. “You’re mine.”
My pulse stutters. I tip my head, drowning in those baby blues, and his shoulders sag with a breath he’s been holding back. He looks wrecked, not possessive, as if he hates how much he wants this, and I arch my back in offering because God, that second chance sounds so dangerously good right now.
Then his gaze drops to my stomach, and the heat in his face shifts to something else, something like panic. “At least until that baby comes.”
I guess it’s me getting the cold bucket of water.
Chapter
Twenty-Eight
Foster
* * *
Too bad time machines don’t exist, because I really wish I could go back to when I bribed Callie to live with me and take it the fuck back.
The lines between us are blurry at best, and we’re crossing them every second we’re together.
I asked her for a second chance to sleep with her so I can give her an orgasm. What the hell?
I’ve made her my pasta recipe, and my caveman mentality last night—telling her she’s mine? Jesus. I’m sure my attempt to save myself by saying it was only because of the baby was transparent as fuck.
But Easton or Decker seeing the outline of her tits just wasn’t an option. Not that I’m excusing my behavior. I already know she deserves a helluva lot better than me.
And now we need to be a united front after the game when we tell Hayes that I knocked up his sister. What has happened to me? I left Seattle to uncomplicate my life and now it’s more of a dumpster fire than ever.
As I stand to get ready to leave the dugout after the game, my throat closes up because it’s finally time to tell Hayes. Callie gave me a small nod after the last out when I came off the mound.
This is when shit gets real, and if I’m lucky, Hayes will be so pissed it’ll burn every damn desire I have for his sister right out of me.
“You’re really in your head.” Drew comes alongside me. “You looked sick. Good thing I got us that run in the eighth. Let you breathe a little until you fucked up the ninth. That old arm hurting you?”
I whip around, fist his jersey, and slam him against the wall.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” a few teammates shout behind me.
Easton and Hayes intervene right away. Hayes puts his hands on our chests, and Easton drags Drew away.
“You just don’t know when to shut the fuck up, do you?” Easton tells Drew. “And learn what being a good teammate actually is, asshole.” He pushes Drew out of the dugout and toward the locker room.
I go to follow, but Hayes stops me. “Hey, man, what’s going on? You’ve been moodier than usual today. I know you had a shit sleep with the alarm and everything, but is there something more?”
It wasn’t the alarm keeping me up—it was the thought of his sister half naked in the next room.
“I’m fine. He just needs someone to beat the shit out of him, so he learns his lesson.”
Razzing is normal. Ribbing is normal. Drew was taking aim at my motherfucking wounds, and I want him off the team.
“Really, man, I’m fine.” I shrug off Hayes’s hands.
He pins me with that look as if he can pry my thoughts out of me.
Not happening. I’m terrified of what he’s going to do, so I keep dragging it out—waiting until the last possible moment until we get here. Like a punk.
