Page 27 of Close Knit

“Why?”

“Because the night we spent togetherdidhappen, and I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it. About you.”

Why did I just say that out loud?

Surprise paints her face. “Then why are you avoiding me?”

Because what I showed her was vulnerability. Here, there’s no room for weakness. My life is about survival and becoming a better competitor. I need to focus and stop my breath from hitching every time I catch her scent.

“Because the only thing I’m allowed to think about is winning.”

“Says who?”

“Do you always ask this many questions?”

“You didn’t seem to mind it before!”

“Well, I do now,” I say.

Why do I care if she’s upset with me? It’s what I wanted.

She stares at me, and just as I’m ready to lock myself in my apartment, she scrunches her nose. “Then fine. If the only way you know how to act is like Cameron Hastings, the keeper—however ironic that sounds because you are clearlynota keeper—then I take back my ‘you’re welcome.’ Yeah, I retractmy pleasantries.” She huffs in a way that pulls at something unnatural in me. How does she manage to look this adorable when she’s angry?

“What?”

“The night we were together, the night I thought was special for us both, you thanked me for the fun we had. Well, I’m taking back saying you’re welcome for it.”

She can’t be serious. “You never said you’re welcome.”

“How do you know?” She taps her foot against the floor, and the whole disappointed-in-me glare on her sweet face is driving me up the wall.

I know because I remember.

I remember every single thing from that night. The way she wanted to see stars, the way I wanted to oblige and impress her. Our familiarity with each other. The slope of her stomach against my lips. The way it rose and fell with every breath I coaxed out of her.

Does she want me to burst into her apartment and recount to her every detail? Relive the sounds and groans she made because of me?

Enough. Enough of this fucking shit.

I grunt and slot my key into the lock.

As I swing open the door, the oddest noise, between a trill and a scream, comes from behind me. I glance over my shoulder to see her standing there, red in the face. “What on earth was that?”

“I don’t know.” She throws her hands in the air in exasperation. “If you’re grunting to express your feelings, then I may as well make a noise for how I feel. That seems to be the only way you want to communicate, so let’s grunt and groan until we figure us out.”

I stare at her, stunned. She’s too emotional. Too honest. Too risky. Too much. Too pretty. So fucking pretty.

“The last thing either of us should be doing is grunting or groaning at each other.”

“That’s not what I meant!”

“Good, because there’s nousto figure out.” I drop the words between us like a final match whistle and turn away from the disappointment written on her face. This is for the best.

“Real mature!” she says mockingly.

I don’t bother to defend myself as I enter my place, slamming the door behind me and heading straight for the shower. I let the water cascade over me, hoping to wash the day away. But my thoughts won’t settle.

Images of her invade my mind—the lavender hue of her hair, the intoxicating scent of vanilla that clings to her like a secret. For a moment, I imagine her here, her fingers up my arms, her breath on my neck. A stubborn echo.

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