Page 100 of Don't Fall for the Goalie
I finally look at him. “Yes?”
His jaw is tight. His eyes dark. Not angry exactly. More like overwhelmed.
Welcome to the club.
“We should talk,” he says.
I smile. “We are talking.”
“In private.”
“Oh.” I widen my eyes innocently. “Now you want to talk?”
Silence drops like a stone.
Connor whispers, “Oh shit.”
Jake appears from the kitchen holding tongs. “What’d I miss?”
“Everything,” Chloe whispers back.
Daltyn’s gaze sharpens. “Outside. Now.”
I laugh once. “Bossy.”
His nostrils flare.
And because I apparently have a death wish, I take another sip of my drink and say, “Careful, goalie. People might think you care.”
The room goes quiet.
And then I turn on my heel, racing for the back door.
What the hell am I doing?
The cold evening air hits my face the second I step onto the back porch. The door shuts behind us, muffling the chaos inside.
Tears are dangerously close to spilling down my cheeks.
I want to be alone.
Yet, there’s a part of me that wants Daltyn to follow me. Even now, when I’m furious, I still want him.
Then the door flies open, and his heavy footsteps pound across the deck.
I turn around, ready to have it out with him.
“We’re not dating,” he says, his voice rough. “We never talked about?—”
“I live with you,” I shoot back. “You hover over me like an anxious bodyguard. You threaten baristas who smile at me. You buy me winter clothes like I’m moving into your cabin permanently. You kissed me like you forgot how to breathe and then spent the entire week acting like I’m radioactive.”
His face tightens.
I step closer, jabbing a finger into his chest. “If it walks like a boyfriend and glares like a boyfriend?—”
“That doesn’t mean I’m your?—”
“What?” I snap. “What, Daltyn? My what? My roommate? My caretaker? My personal chauffeur? My emergency contact with emotional constipation?”
