Page 210 of Faking the Goal

Before I can make sense of it, a much more pressing question barges its way to the front of my aching brain.

"Wait. Why are you even here?" I gesture between him, me, and the bed. "More specifically, why are you half-naked in my apartment, in my bed?"

Whatever passed over his face disappears. His eyes come back to mine, that familiar teasing glint returning as he reaches over and flicks me lightly on the forehead.

His gaze drops briefly to his bare chest. "You spilled water all over my shirt, so I took it off. And I stayed because... well, you wouldn't let me leave."

I stare at him. "Yeah, right."

"Believe it or not, after I drove you home and carried you up to your apartment—yes, carried you, because you were about three steps away from face-planting on the sidewalk—I put you in bed and was fully prepared to leave like a gentleman." His mouth curves. "Then you grabbed my wrist."

"I did not."

"You absolutely did. And then you said—and I quote—'Don't go. My bed is cold, you're warm, and I don't want to be alone.'"

Heat floods my face so fast I'm surprised my hair doesn't steam. "I would never say that. I have never, in my entire life, been that pathetic."

"Apparently, enough alcohol can turn Taylor Lewis into a sappy, clingy little thing." Kentaro shakes his head, looking far too amused, like he's enjoying every fucking second of it. "It was cute, actually. I tried to extract myself, and you just—" He mimes an octopus wrapping around something. "Full-body koala grip. Would not let go."

"Lies."

"You called me your 'big, sexy body pillow.'"

My mouth falls open.

His grin widens. "Then you told me I was better than a real pillow because I was warm, had muscles, and could hug you back."

Oh.

My.

Fucking.

God.

"I did not say that."

"You did." His shoulders shake with another quiet laugh. "Then you buried your face against my chest, told me to stop trying to escape because I was 'very comfortable and very handsome,' and passed out."

"Oh my God." I drop my face into my hands, wishing I could crawl backward through time and personally confiscate every drink from Drunk Taylor before she ruined my life. "Just end me. Right now. Put me out of my misery."

"No need to be shy, trouble."

I peek through my fingers.

He's still grinning, but there's no mockery in it anymore. If anything, the way he's looking at me has gotten softer, almost unbearably affectionate.

"I liked seeing that side of you." His grin softens as his eyes linger on mine. "Maybe a little too much, because now that I know how fucking cute you get when you're drunk, I don't want anyone else seeing it. So from now on, if you're getting drunk, you're doing it with me."

His thumb brushes lightly over my cheek. "Because if you're going to get all sweet, cuddly, and touchy with someone, trouble, it better fucking be me."

My heart gives one stupidly hard thump.

There's still a hint of teasing in his smile, but something in his voice tells me he means it. The idea of anyone else getting the same soft, clingy version of me he got last night genuinely seems to bother him.

And fuck me if his sudden possessiveness doesn't send a completely inappropriate little thrill through me.

Before I can examine that reaction too closely, my stomach lets out a long, embarrassingly loud growl.