Page 216 of Playing With Fire

“You want some water?”

I blink. “Water?”

“Yeah.”

“Um. Sure.”

He disappears into the kitchen. I follow, setting my shoes beside the stairs. He takes two glasses from the cabinet, fills them, and sets one on the island.

Then he reaches up and loosens his collar.

He's restless. Not pacing, exactly. But I've known Hayes Bishop long enough to recognize when he's trying to work something out in his head.

It's the same expression he gets when he's watching game footage, studying a play he knows he could've handled differently.

Except this isn't hockey. And I'm beginning to wonder if I'm the play he regrets making.

“Bishop?”

“Hmm?”

“Talk to me.”

He takes a drink of water. “About what?”

I come around the island, gesturing between us. “This.”

His eyes follow me. “What's this?”

I give him a small, disbelieving laugh. “Seriously?”

He sets his glass down.

“Becks—”

“No.” I catch his hand before he can say anything else. “You don't get to do that.”

“Do what?”

“Pretend you don't know what I'm talking about.”

He glances at our hands. Then back at me.

“I'm not pretending.”

“Then tell me what's going on.”

For several seconds, he doesn't answer. Somewhere outside, a siren rises and fades into the distance. Finally, he exhales and brings both hands to my face. His cool palms rest against my flushed cheeks, his fingers spreading through my hair as he tips my head back.

“I'm tired, Becks.”

Oh.

The disappointment is immediate and ridiculous. Of course he's tired.

He played in Toronto last night, flew home, spent the entire day preparing for this event, and then spent hours being charming to strangers. What did I expect?

“Oh.” I try for a smile. “Okay. Yeah, of course. It's late, and you've had a long weekend.”