Nothing about this kiss is careful.
Nothing about it is restrained.
And for the first time since my ridiculous fake relationship started, all lines are gone.
With one hand pressed between my shoulder blades, Lucas brings the other up to my face, pulling off my glasses and dropping them to the ground. Then he cups my face with his hand, his thumb just in front of my ears, anchoring me to him. Guiding my mouth to his. His lips are hot and hungry, and he tastes like sweat and the peppermint lip balm I slipped into his locker earlier. With every kiss, the stadium fades away until all of my awareness is here—centered on him.
He breaks the kiss for a moment to take a breath, and I desperately grab his jersey, practically throwing myself onto him. He bumps against a table, chuckles in my mouth, and then sits back against the table. His hands drop down to my waist, but they don’t stay there long. He pulls me closer at the hips, and then his hands find my back again. My neck. My hair.
Lucas kisses me like he’s been practicing each move in his head for months, like he’s memorized my lips, the curve of my neck, the small of my back in theory, and now he’s finally getting to enjoy it in reality.
Us.
A soft sound escapes my throat—half laugh, half sob—and he backs up enough to check on me, his eyes roving my face. “Are you okay?”
I laugh and press my forehead into his lips. “Definitely okay. Is this real?”
He kisses my neck just below my ear, his breath turning my legs to jelly. “It had better be. If I wake up from one more dream where I’m finally kissing you just to realize it’s my pillow, I’m going to walk into a live bullpen.”
I laugh as he wraps his arms around me. I put mine under his, and scratch my nails across his back over his jersey.
“Mmm,” he says, finding my lips again. “I love that.”
I scratch more, my nails tracing around his number, roving around his back like it’s an exploratory mission—an excuse to feel every muscle in his back. Soon, I’m smiling too hard to kiss anymore, and Lucas lets go of me, hugs me close, and kisses my forehead again and again.
“One more week, Quinn.”
“One more week,” I echo. “And I’m all yours.”
Somewhere down the hallway, a door slams. We risk one last, hungry kiss before forcing ourselves apart. I fix Lucas’s jersey where I tugged it a bit too hard. He smooths my hair and blouse.
And then, with a lingering look that promises more than either of us are ready to say out loud, he leaves the video room.
I watch him go, smiling like an absolute fool.
When the familiar buzz pattern of my family text thread vibrates against my thigh, I don’t even glance at it. They’ll want updates. Reassurance that Jake’s star is rising. Something strategic and self-sacrificing.
But for the first time in my life, I don’t feel obligated to answer.
For the first time, I’m choosing something for me.
For us.
The phone buzzes again.
I silence it.
Trace my fingers across my smiling lips and try not to squeal with excitement.
One more week.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Lucas
“Mm,” I say as Logan and I walk through the dining room. “What is it with Honeycrisp? Here, take a bite.”
He slaps my hand away before it reaches his mouth. “I’m not taking a bite of your apple, you weirdo.”
