Page 157 of Don't Fall for the Goalie
Fuck.
That sweater on her should be illegal. It brings back too many memories of the bathroom.
“You,” she admits softly.
Every muscle in my body tightens. “Dangerous answer, Pey.”
“I know.”
I grip the counter harder.
She says things like that so quietly. So honestly. Like she doesn’t realize they hit me like a damn body check straight to the chest.
I focus on cooking before I completely lose control again, boiling the pasta. Making sauce and heating up the garlic bread I bought. Simple, mindless tasks.
Except nothing about this feels simple anymore.
Peyton slides off the stool suddenly.
“What are you doing?”
“You’re cooking. I’m helping.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I want to.”
That word lands somewhere deep.Want.
She wants to.
She moves beside me, reaching for plates while I try very hard not to think about the fact that she’s barefoot in my kitchen, wearing clothing I bought her. Ones that cling to her soft curves.
Damn it.This is how people get emotionally attached.
I carefully pass her the garlic bread tray. “Careful. It’s hot.”
“I know.”
Our fingers brush as she takes the tray. The same spark shoots through me.
Jesus Christ.
Peyton sucks in a tiny breath.
So she felt it too.
The realization is possessive and ugly and deeply satisfying.
We move around each other awkwardly at first.
Then easier. More natural. Until it’s like we’ve done this a hundred times before.
At one point, she bumps into me when reaching for the refrigerator door. My hand automatically lands on her waist to steady her.
Neither of us moves.
My thumb brushes lightly against her hip. Her breathing changes, coming shorter and faster.
