Page 54 of Drawn to You

My stomach churns with a mix of anger and frustration. We’re supposed to leave for the airport at five forty-five. If I don’t find him, am I supposed to get on the plane without him?

There’s a “Closed” sign in front of the hotel restaurant and bar, but I walk past it to check the seats. On the last barstool, Dane’s sitting with his arms folded in front of him on the bar, a bottle of water sitting off to the side.

“Hey,” he says as I approach, all casual, like he didn’t just spike my adrenaline.

I arch my brows. “Hey. Thanks for sending me into a panic.”

“I can’t sit by myself and drink some water?”

I knit my brows together. “Of course you can, but”

“Only if I ask you first?”

“Just tell me.”

He scoffs, a smile tugging on the corners of his lips. “I didn’t want to wake you up. And we both know if I told you I needed some air, you’d be like, What? Where? With who? I’ll come with you.”

I sniff and turn away, offended. “Sorry my presence is so annoying.”

He laughs lightly. “You don’t annoy me. I just couldn’t sleep and I felt like brooding alone.”

“Over what?”

He’s quiet for a couple of seconds before answering. “The game. I made some stupid mistakes and we would have won if I’d been smarter.”

The Mammoths lost 3–2 last night, But Dane never mentioned anything after the game about feeling responsible for it. He just seemed quiet and down, which is always the case after a loss.

“Everyone makes mistakes,” I say.

“Yeah, but this is a big fucking stage to make mistakes on.”

“It still happens.”

He picks up his water and sips it, looking straight ahead. “I miss my bed. I’m glad we’re going home tomorrow.”

“Did your teammates make you feel bad about the mistakes?”

“No, there was only one that anyone other than me noticed.”

“Don’t tell me you’re secretly humble,” I crack. “You’ll shatter my image of you as a cocky, overconfident narcissist.”

He laughs, smiling a genuine smile. “Nah, I’m a cocky prick for sure. I just hate letting my team down.”

When he reaches for the nearly empty bowl of cocktail peanuts, I move it away before his hand gets to it.

“You might as well just cut out the middleman and go lick the inside of a toilet,” I say.

He scoffs. “I already ate a bunch of them. Why stop now?”

“You don’t really want these stale, germ-infested peanuts. You’re emotionally eating them.”

“Would you prefer I emotionally drink a bottle of whiskey?”

He leans closer to me, stretching his arm in an effort to reach the peanut bowl, but I move it farther away.

“I think you should go back to bed. We have an early flight.”

His eyes darken. “Can I get in your bed?”

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