Page 80 of End Game

He chuckles. “It definitely helped.”

We’re quiet for a moment, and I close my eyes, breathing deep. When I open them again, I find he’s still watching me, his brows drawn together and a concerned look on his face. “You okay?”

“Head spinning a little.” Not really, but what can I tell him? That he overwhelms me in the best way, and I’m trying to remind myself that this is nothing? Just two roommates getting a little drunk on a Saturday night. Nothing more.

Nothing less.

“Too much alcohol?”

“Not really.” Oops, that was a too-honest answer.

His gaze turns knowing. Does he realize he’s the one who’s making my head spin? His delicious scent, his stupidly handsome face, me engulfed in his hoodie, sitting on his bed, alone in his room, a little buzzed from sharing a bottle with him?

“I have a suggestion.”

“What is it?” I ask warily.

“I think we should make out.”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

EVERLEIGH

Wait a second.

Did I hear him correctly? Did Nico Valente just say he wants to make out?

With me?

It’s like I’m on a ten-second delay, his words slowly sinking into my brain and taking a moment for me to absorb. “You’re kidding.”

His face switches into an expressionless mask. “If you don’t want to, it’s cool. Just a suggestion.”

His voice is way too casual, which has me suspicious.

“It’s not that I don’t want to ...” I clamp my lips shut, wondering where I’m going with this. On the one hand, I would love to make out with Nico. That one kiss in front of Portia wasn’t enough. It was like a tempting little snack before the actual feast.

While we feasted on each other a few nights ago, that wasn’t enough either. It’s like the more we kiss, the more I want it.

Does he feel the same way?

Casually kissing my roommate with tongues involved is not something I thought I would do. How am I going to feel after tonight’s proposed make-out session? Will I move on with my life, or will I crave more?

Knowing me, I’m guessing it’ll be the latter.

“I get it. You’ve already told me you don’t want to do this. That I’m not your type.”

Why does he sound so ... defeated?

He makes no sense.

I peer up at him, swaying backward until I basically collapse against his headboard, nearly knocking my head on it. He lunges for me a little too late—see, I knew his reflexes would become slower from the alcohol—and his hand comes around to cup the back of my head, lifting me away from the headboard.

“You okay?” He’s holding me like I’m some sort of Disney princess laid out on his bed. Hovering above me like my very own Prince Charming. “Did you hurt yourself?”

“No,” I whisper, my gaze resting yet again on his perfectly shaped lips.

They’re nice lips. The bottom one is fuller than the top, and when he smiles—like he’s doing at me right now—all my brain cells seem to scatter like leaves in the wind. Leaving me dumbstruck.

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