Page 106 of Butterfly Effect

“Since I found out you are.”

A sardonic smile lifts one corner of my lips, the pit in my stomach growing at the possibility he isn’t lying. “Yeah, right.”

“Let’s go, Freckles. One-on-one.”

Pretty Boy sweeps his sweaty waves to one side with a brush of his fingers between dribbles. “Please? We’ve played against each other before.”

Don’t fall for it.

One arm crosses the other over my chest. “That was at a gym when our friends were secretly screwing each other.”

The game between Landon, Wade, Indi, and I feels like a lifetime ago because it was. So much has changed.

“Also, I’m barefoot. Take your socks off,” I order.

Will he ever stop smirking? How am I supposed to ignore how cute it is if he keeps doing it?

“Aw, Freckles,” he intones while lifting his feet, then peels away his socks with a single hand. “If you wanted me to strip, you could have asked?—”

“Or you could answer my question.”

“Hey, I don’t have a lot of spare time during the season, and it’s fun to play with the guys now and again. Plus, I convinced my financial advisor that it wouldn’t affect the resale value because anyone who wants this place in the future would want a court.” The ball tucks between his elbow and hip. “So I combined two guest rooms.” He draws a line across the middle of the court with a straightened palm and one eye screwed shut. “All for you, Freckles.”

Bullshit.

I sashay to him, getting so close I can smell his minty toothpaste, then hit him with my best doe eyes and a sugary tone. “Forme?”

“Mmhm.” His bottom lip glistens with the swipe of his tongue. “Anything.” The seam of his mouth splits. “For.” Its gap widens as he leans forward, a silent yearning for a kiss. “You.”

The lightest touch tips the ball from his grasp. I laugh and take off, leaping up to make a shot. My silk pajama top flutters from me, exposing my chest. The ball swishes through the hoop as gravity pulls me—and my flimsy tank—back down.

Wade runs up to snatch the ball with both hands. “You’re playing dirty.” He admires my hardly-there breasts before resuming eye contact. “You flashed me.”

I fix my top and point to his shirtless torso. “Takes one to know one. I can take off my shirt to even the playing field if you’d like.”

His eyebrows lift in challenge. “You can, but then you’d be on your back in the paint while I suck on your tits. Wanna take the chance, Freckles?” He tosses the ball to me.

Yes.

No!

“No thanks.” An eye roll occurs by instinct during the short volley, and my forceful throwback knocks some air from his lungs. “If I win, will you stop calling me that?”

He dribbles twice, jukes me out, and charges, but ends in an easy layup. It goes in. Wade walks the ball back.

“If you win, you can do whatever you want to me.”

“Tempting, but I have that already.”

“Touché.”

The ball returns to me, and our conversation continues amidst the consistent dribbling, the erratic squeak of our soles against the wood flooring, and staggering breaths.

I sneak in two points when his gaze goes down my shirt. He groans and whips his hands into a half-clap of disappointment.

“That’s what you get for lazy defense.”

His response is anything but apologetic. “Sorry, I get hard by thinking about how nice your tits are.”

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