Page 78 of A Little Complicated

“We should talk.”

“Like I said,” I flex my fingers beneath hers. “I’m not in the mood.”

Slowly, she lifts her hands, plucking a few strands of sweaty hair away from her face and pushing them behind her ear. “Truth or dare?”

“What?” My eyebrows raise.

“Truth. Or. Dare?” she repeats.

“I’m not playing this game.” I turn around, ready to get the hell out of Dodge.

“Fine,” she calls. “I’ll tell your brother what happened last night.”

“And fuck up your own relationship?” I laugh and face her again. “I doubt it.”

“Dammit, Maverick!” she yells at me. “Why are you so stubborn?”

“Why not?” My shoulders lift, and I head back up a few more steps, but my curiosity gets the best of me.

This girl.

This fucking girl.

Facing her again, I tuck my hands into my pockets and grunt, “Fine. Dare.”

“I dare you to grow a pair and come back here so we can talk about this.”

My nostrils flare, but I take the final steps separating us and lean forward, stealing her space as she keeps her heated gaze on me. “Pretty sure you already know I have a pair, and you were reminded of them last night when I was nestled between your pretty little thighs.”

“Technically, it was your dick I felt, which is fitting by the way, since you’ve basically created your entire persona around being one.”

My lips lift with amusement, and I growl, “My turn. Truth or dare?”

“Truth.”

“Are you in love with my brother?”

She pulls back slightly. “Of course, I love your brother.”

“Inlove,” I clarify.

Confusion twists her pretty little face, and she tilts her head. “What?”

“You can love hockey. You cannot beinlove with hockey.”

“Fine,” she concedes. “I don’t know if I’m in love with him or not. Is that what you want to hear?”

I don’t know anymore. What I want. What the repercussions will be. Because it isn’t only me. It isn’t only her. It’s him too. It’ll always be him.

When I stay silent for too long, she asks, “Truth or dare?”

“Dare,” I repeat, keeping my expression—my feelings—on lockdown.

Her eyes flash with frustration. She wants me to say truth. She wants me to open the door and let her ask me things I’ve been refusing to answer.

“Fine,” she seethes. “I dare you to tell me why you pretended to be your brother last night.”

These aren’t the rules. I know it, and so does Ophelia, but I answer her anyway. “You assumed—”

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