Page 132 of Off Limits: The Firsts

“You keep thinking that,” he says and then holds his hand up to someone over my shoulder. “Hold up. I need you to look at something.” He takes a few steps so that he’s shoulder to shoulder with me. “It was definitely the kiss.”

“Hunter—”

“You’re welcome.”

Without another word, his skates clomp down the carpeted hallway toward the visiting team’s quarters, while I watch after him wondering how in the hell he just got the upper hand in this conversation when I’m the one holding all the cards in a game he doesn’t even know we’re playing.

But isn’t that us?

Well, him and me.

There is no us.

There won’t be an us.

There can’t be an us. Not even a one-night-stand us.

Hell, Hunter maneuvered me right where he wanted me to be—me answering his questions while I forget to get answers to mine.

Something is going on with him.

The agent in me wants to figure it out so I can manipulate it to my advantage—take care of the problem, negotiate the issue away, and show him just how good I am at my job.

The woman in me worries about him, because you can only push so hard, so long, without burning out.

Dekker

I glance at the first page of the weekly status sheet in my inbox and twist my lips. What do I type? What answer do I give? Haven’t approached him? He doesn’t know? I kissed him?

I want to kiss him again?

Shit.

Instead of typing anything, I close the email and don’t respond. It’s too soon for me to type anything.

Hunter

“Hey Mom. Just calling to see how Jonah’s doing.” I lean back against the pillows propped against the headboard behind me. Different day. Different hotel. Same life.

Her nervous chuckle unnerves me. “He’s fine. Just has a cold. Probably from all the germs. I went to the store to buy things to prepare us to come and see your game. I probably got the germs there and somehow brought them home to him.”

Christ, it’s always my fault he’s sick, one way or another.

“There are germs everywhere. You can’t really avoid them.”

“When it comes to Jonah though. He’s fragile and—”

“Can I talk to him? Can you put his headset on him?”

“You know sometimes that thing doesn’t work.”

“Then can you put the phone up to his ear?” I ask, running a hand through my hair as I stare out the window.

“Your father asked if you’ve been getting his texts. He says you’re not responding.”

Another no when it comes to Jonah. I shouldn’t be surprised, but I am. Thanks, Mom.

And my father’s texts? I don’t think I’ve responded in ten years, and yet he keeps sending them as if he doesn’t notice otherwise.