“Bruised,” I say.“Nothing serious.”
“Shame.”
“Why is that?”
His eyes meet mine.
Molten.
Dangerous.
“Would’ve been a good excuse to see you more often.”
I roll my eyes so hard I’m surprised they don’t fall out of my head.
“Walker.”
“Chiara.”
“You’re impossible.”
“Yet here I am.”
I step back, crossing my arms again.
“Just put some ice on it tonight.If it still bothers you, I’ll wrap it before practice tomorrow.”
He nods but still sits there.
“You’re cleared to go.”
He doesn’t move.
Instead, he leans back on his hands like he’s got nowhere else in the world to be.
“You know,” he says casually, “most women don’t mind a bit of attention.”
“I’m not most women.”
“So I’ve noticed.”
He stands slowly.
And for one second we’re much too close.
Close enough that I can smell soap and sweat and something annoyingly nice.
Close enough that my traitorous brain whispers, danger.
He tilts his head slightly.
“So,” he says after a moment, voice dropping just enough to make my stomach do an annoying little flip, “are you still thinking about whether I’d be disappointing in bed?”
My face goes nuclear.
“Oh my God,” I gasp, mortified.“You heard all of that?”
He leans one broad shoulder against the doorframe, looking entirely too pleased with himself.
