Page 200 of Playing With Fire

“Apparently.”

“Huh.”

I hear a door close upstairs.

“Look, I gotta go. We're leaving in a minute.”

“Just keep an eye on her, all right?”

I almost laugh as if that's ever been a problem.

“Always do.” In fact, I can’t seem to look away where she’s concerned.

“Yeah,” he says, his voice softening. “I know.”

The call ends.

There is no way he knows. If he really knew, I would be lucky to be skating by preseason next year.

I slide my phone into my pocket and turn toward the stairs.

“Becks? You about⁠—”

The rest of the sentence never makes it out. She stands at the top of the staircase, and for the first time in my adult life, I forget how to fucking speak.

The dress is black. At least, I think it's black. Something lighter shows beneath it, making the lace stand out against her shimmering skin. Tiny beads catch the light with every move, sparkling across the fitted bodice before the fabric falls away around her hips.

Her hair is swept up, leaving her shoulders bare except for a few loose strands framing her face.

She isn't wearing her reading glasses. Or her Uggs. Or one of those oversized sweaters she practically lives in.

She's holding a pair of strappy black heels in one hand, the other gathering her skirt as she starts down the stairs.

And I can't move.

I should say something.

Anything.

Instead, I stand there like a fucking idiot and watch her come toward me. Because somewhere between the shy teenage girl who used to follow Beckett and me around and the woman coming down my staircase, Delaney Beckett became every damn fantasy I never let myself want.

And tonight, she's coming with me.

DELANEY

Iknew the second I tried on this dress that it was the one.

Judging by the stunned look on Bishop's handsome face, I made the right decision. He hasn't moved since I started down the stairs, not even when I reached the bottom.

I shift the heels dangling from my fingers. “Okay, you're starting to make me nervous.”

His hooded gaze travels over me again, slower this time. “Becks.”

I laugh, mostly because I'm not sure what else to do with the nervous energy buzzing inside me. He looks incredible in his custom black tuxedo with a crisp white shirt and black bow tie. His curly blonde hair is styled in that effortlessly messy way, like he’s been running his fingers through it.

He comes toward me and traces a slow circle with his finger. “Turn around.”

My pulse picks up. “Why?”