Page 48 of Game Misconduct

Nick pushes the cheese fries closer to me. “You look hungry.”

Whirling to face him, I narrow my eyes into slits. “Excuse me?”

Is that a dig at my weight? I know I’m not thin like the supermodels he probably dates. He doesn’t need to rub it in. Here’s a list of all your faults. Fucking asshole.

He swallows the fry he’s chewing, then wipes his hands on his napkin. His big, strong fingers. I remember how they felt inside me, filling me so fully I could hardly breathe.

Then he does the last thing I expected. He reaches over and smooths his thumb over the space between my brows, where my forehead is furrowed.

“Stop thinking so hard,” he murmurs. “Having a meal with me isn’t the end of the world.”

My breath catches. “It might be.” Can he hear the hitch in my voice? The way I can hardly think around him?

The radiant smile he offers me makes my heart hammer in my chest. “It’s not.”

His hand cups my cheek for a moment, just a fraction of a second, before it’s gone.

“How’re we doing?” The perky fucking bartender is back, this time eyeing Nick like he’s a piece of meat. Look, I get it. He’s hot, he’s only in town for a few nights, he’s a superstar hockey player. And he’s mine.

Okay, intrusive thought. He’s not mine. I don’t have any ownership of him. Hell, I don’t even want him. I don’t think so, at least. But I don’t want her to have him, either.

“I’ll have the steak, medium-rare, with the mashed potatoes and brussels sprouts,” he orders. “Oh, and a Caesar salad with chicken. Bex, what do you want?”

I open my mouth, ready to turn him down. I don’t want to share a meal with him. I don’t want to share anything with him.

“Don’t say nothing, or I’ll unilaterally order for you,” he threatens.

Glaring at him, I hold out my hand, and he passes over the cardstock menu. It’s greasy with fingerprints and stained from who knows what, and a shiver runs down my spine.

“The shrimp and grits, please.” The words come out in a whisper, completely unlike the usual authoritative tone I’ve taught myself to use.

“Certainly.” Is that tension in her voice? I can’t tell over the ick in my ears.

She whips the menu out of my hands, and I dive for my purse.

“Don’t tell me you’re leaving already,” Nick taunts.

My hands curl into fists. Rummaging through my bag is difficult, but I want to avoid touching all my things with dirty, greasy fingers. Statistically, restaurant menus hold more bacteria than a toilet seat, since they aren’t wiped down with bleach all the time. I’m not usually a germaphobe—my OCD doesn’t manifest that way—except I can feel the germs dancing on my skin, taunting me, and I want to crawl out of my body.

Finally, I come up with the bottle of hand sanitizer, and I squeeze a huge glob into my palm. The sharp scent of alcohol, muted by the orange-blossom perfume, calms my frazzled nerves. It’s psychosomatic, and I rationally know that. Still, it doesn’t lessen the soothing impact.

“Oh, can I have some?” He holds out his hand, and I squeeze it into his waiting palm despite my wariness. He rubs the sanitizer in, then brings his hands to his nose, inhaling deeply.

“Huffing it won’t get you high.”

His hearty chuckle and the warm smile he sends me are so familiar, it’s like a punch to the gut. That is what he sounds like. That is what he looks like.

I’ve been so intent on hating him, I’ve forgotten some of the good things, too.

The way he made me feel seen. And wanted. And safe.

Then I had to ruin it. The same way I ruin everything. Stupid, stupid, stupid me.

“Hey.” He sets his hand on my arm. “What’s going on?”

There’s no condescension in his eyes, only concern. Prickles of warmth flood through my veins at his innocent touch on my skin, and I can’t decide if I like it. I don’t want to. But I think I really, really do.

“Do you want to talk about it?”