I do as I’m told, and Brighton has the kitchen clean before the sushi arrives. He gets us plates, disappearing downstairs for less than five minutes to make me a drink that tastes like Sprite but definitely isn’t—baby-pink over ice, lemon slices clinking against the glass. He changes into his sweats and t-shirt that looks older than me before he settles into the cushions next to me.
“Okay,” he says, settling in. “What’s the next step of a couch date?” His hair is messy, and his smile lazy as I pull the blanket up around my lap.
“Wrestling,” I say with a grin.
“Seriously?” Brighton sighs.
“Dead serious.” I click on the start of the match and watch as he picks out the pieces of sushi he wants carefully. As we watch, he starts asking questions, and every time he does, it makes me feel warm and dizzy.Okay, focus, we aren’t starved for attention.
“Who’s that?” He points with his chopsticks at the TV.
“Roman Reigns,” I explain his backstory, and Brighton shakes his head.
“And that?” he asks.
“That’s Seth Rollins,” I tell him.
“And who’s your favorite?” he questions, handing me the last piece of roll without looking at me.
I sigh dramatically with a hazy smile. “CM Punk.”
I watch him search his name in the browser, and he looks up from his phone with a scowl. He searches the name, then looks up with a scowl. “Rhea. That’s an old man. What is wrong with you?” he groans, and I go full defense mode.
“He’s the rebel of the wrestling community, he’s a legend!”
“He could be your dad,” Brighton scoffs.
“Oh, I have major Daddy issues, Brighton.” I tease, and his eyes go wide.So easily undone.
"What about a grouchy, bossy, greying old guy is appealing?" He argues with a tight expression but it's soft and prodding.
“Did you stop to think that’s the point? I need structure, Brighton.” This only makes him scowl and causes me to laugh. “Oh, Daddy!” I cry out, and he gives me a shove on the couch.
“Stop it,” he warns.
“Daddy Punk!” I giggle, “Show me your wrestling moves behind closed doors!”
“That’s disgusting.” He shakes his head and tries to ignore me.
After about an hour, he looks slightly interested, and he’s still asking questions while he flinches at some of the moves and rolls his eyes at others. When he asks what my favorite moves are, all bets are off.
“No, up like this.” I show him with my arms, two seconds from climbing up on the coffee table, and he stifles a laugh from the base of his throat. “What?” I look down at myself and have no idea what he finds amusing.
“Nothing.” He presses his lips together in a thin line, his chin tilted up, watching me.
“You don’t think I’ll do it?” I snap, and he raises a brow.
“You just got that splint off, don’t be an animal.” His tone is cautious, shifting on the couch. He’s relaxed but still wary, like he knows betterthan to let his guard down around me. It’s hilarious and endearing.He likes that you’re unpredictable, even if he refuses to admit it.
I toss my head back and laugh. Brighton calmy leans forward, stacking the empty plates to the side of the table as I step up onto it and stare down at him. “Just admit you’re a coward.”
“I’m not a coward, you’re going to—”
Before he can say anything, I jump from the table, and he pushes back against the couch as my feet make contact on either side of his thighs. I go to throw a fake elbow at his shoulder, but he catches me around the middle and pulls me down into his lap.
Our faces come level with one another, and he scowls at me, but it doesn’t last long because I steal a kiss from him, and when I pull back, his expression has softened into something else.
“Good catch,” I whisper. He inhales slowly as his hands slide under my sleeveless T-shirt. It has been nothing but small stolen kisses, passing remarks, and the occasional ass grab that makes Brighton growly. “You can’t do that in the middle of the Hollow, Hellcat. You’re going to get me reported to HR.”I can hear him even now—followed by Sunday’s inevitable loud gag and a quick reminder of, “You are HR.”
