I pull back slightly. “Did you tell him it was fake?”
“He cornered me in the weight room, and I panicked.”
“He obviously didn’t believe you.” I bite back a smile. “You should probably go murder him.”
“I’m considering it.”
But he doesn’t move.
Neither do I.
His thumb brushes over my cheek, softer than the kiss was. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly.
The apology hits harder than I expect.
“You should be.”
His lips twitch.
“But you’re not off the hook.”
“I know.”
“And we’re talking.”
His face tightens slightly.
“Actually talking,” I add.
He exhales. “Yeah.”
My chest aches. That single word sounds like it cost him something, but he said it anyway.
Inside, Gram yells, “I WANT GRAND-GOALIE BABIES!”
Daltyn closes his eyes.
I start laughing. Really laughing.
And this time, when he looks at me, he doesn’t step back.
He smiles.
It’s small. A little pained. Alittle terrified.
But real.
And God help me, I think that might be enough to break my heart.
28
DALTYN
The ride home is quiet.
Like the porch kiss cracked something open between us, and now neither of us knows what the hell to do with the pieces.
Peyton sits beside me in my Escalade, turned slightly toward the window while soft music hums through the speakers. The glow from passing streetlights sweeps across her face every few seconds.
