Page 7 of Don't Fall for the Goalie
Although I’m not entirely sure if I’m relieved or not.
But it did end with her knees going weak and her stumbling in the aisle.
Of course I caught her.
Because that’s what I do with Peyton Sinclair.
She falls, I catch her.
She breaks, I pick up the pieces and put her back together.
And somehow, every time she looks at me afterward, I feel like I’ve done something worth a damn.
Analyzing why I do it ends the second I touch her, and the tingling sensation short-circuits my brain.
When the clamor of passengers exiting the plane brings me back to my senses, I lose them again when her ass starts swaying in those tight jeans.
Fuck. Me.
The airport is sheer hell because of her.
Normally, it doesn’t bother me. I put in my AirPods, listen to music, and casually observe all the chaos like I’m watching a show.
But not when Peyton’s beside me.
Not only does her mood affect mine—which has never happened to me before—but I’m hypervigilant.
She’s a magnet for trouble... and for male attention.
And oblivious to both.
Which works for me. Mostly.
She’s affected by me, but I haven’t figured out whether it’s because I’ve become her personal savior… or something else. Something I don’t want to identify.
As pissed as I am when some asshole bumps into her, I don’t mind when she crashes into me.
My body moves before my brain catches up, pulling her closer like she belongs with me.
I also don’t mind that the chaos keeps her in my personal space.
Although I’m pissed at that dumb teenager for slamming into her and nearly knocking her on her ass, I instinctively catch her… and carry her to my vehicle.
As soon as I scoop her up, she sags against me like I’mthe safest place in the world.
Because she trusts me.
Even after everything her psycho ex put her through.
Did I need to carry her out of the airport?
No.
Should I have checked whether she could walk?
Probably.
Do I care?
