Page 127 of Playing With Fire

“It’s evidence of a crime.” Bishop sighs.

I’m laughing hard enough that my stomach hurts. Bishop catches me.

“You’re enjoying this way too fucking much.”

“I want one. Please?” I beg.

“Absolutely not.”

“For Christmas?”

“No.”

“Birthday?”

“No.”

“Housewarming?”

His gaze catches mine. The word hangs there for half a second. Housewarming, as in my own apartment, as in me leaving. Some of the warmth in my chest evaporates.

I take another sip, but the sweet almond doesn’t taste quite as good this time.

Jax saves us by hooking an arm around Deacon’s neck and steering him toward the enclosed room.

“Come on, rookie. Leave the old man’s embarrassing memorabilia alone.”

“Old man?” Bishop calls after him. “You’re older than me, asshole.”

The rest of us follow, Bishop’s hand returning to my back as we move through the crowd.

I tell myself I don’t notice.

I’m lying.

Bishop leans close enough that his shoulder brushes mine.

“You having fun?” His voice is low beneath the noise.

I look at him. His hair is still slightly damp from his post-game shower, and he’s traded his suit for dark jeans and a black Phoenixes quarter-zip.

“Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

“Your friends are questionable.” They’re actually pretty great.

“They’re your friends now, too.” The words land before either of us seems to realize he said them.

I smile. “That seems premature.”

“Too late.”

The players’ room is quieter than the main bar, but only by comparison. Music still filters through the walls, glasses knock against the tables, and every few seconds a burst of laughter rises above the rest. There are fewer bodies back here, enough that I can finally take a full breath without brushing against a stranger.

Although apparently brushing against Bishop is unavoidable.

For the next hour, I stop thinking about apartment listings and Friday morning and all the reasons getting too comfortable around him is a terrible idea.