Page 22 of Playing Flirty

I begged my brain to let it go—to stop showing me his eyes. Stop making my skin tingle where his fingers had stroked my legs. Stop hearing him say my name as if it were the first time my name had ever been spoken out loud.

I begged my brain to stop questioning my relationship with Patrick.

Round 8

On Saturday morning, I was bundled on the couch when Patrick arrived holding two cups of coffee and a brown paper bag. He walked in wearing a pair of fitted blue jeans and the whitest, brightest T-shirt I had ever seen—I couldn’t look directly at it without squinting.

He slipped into the kitchen and turned the oven on before making his way to me.

“I missed you,” he said.

“I would hope so,” I replied, searching for the urge to be close to him and coming up empty.

He leaned down and kissed me, pulling away only long enough to mumble his apologies. Over and over. It was something we’d rehearsed before.

I’m sorry, he’d say.

I know, I’d reply.

He walked back to the kitchen and put the croissants in the oven.

“It says to bake them for ten minutes.” He smiled, his eyes glinting as he neared me. “We could do a lot in ten minutes.”

Strange panic built in my core, and I let out a nervous giggle. But there wasn’t enough time to dissect those feelingsbefore his mouth crashed against mine and he nudged me backward, lowering himself onto me.

This is fine. It’s okay. This is what I wanted.

He unwrapped the blanket I held around myself and slid his hand beneath my shirt. I closed my eyes, waiting for euphoria to envelop me, for my skin to tingle, but it didn’t.

I tried focusing on his warm body, on his fresh smell. I focused on the feeling of his skin against mine, but it didn’t help. All I felt was the pain in my ankle.

And he knew.

I pushed my mouth against his, and it didn’t fit. Had the shape of his lips changed in the time away?

“Stop,” I said, before we started.

“Are you okay?” Patrick recoiled, pushing himself up and blowing out a long breath. Before he could say anything else, the smell of burning croissants called his attention, and he rushed to the kitchen, curse words following him.

I scrambled upright, and a pinch whirred up from my ankle to my knee.

“I’ll order some breakfast,” he said from the kitchen, his hands covering his face.

“It’s okay. I’m not hungry.”

Walking back toward the couch, he sat beside me in silence. A silence that used to be comfortable was now tense with unasked questions, holding answers neither of us wanted.

“I’ve ruined this, haven’t I?” His soft green eyes pleaded for reassurance.

“I’m just stressed.” I gestured to my foot. “And in a bit of pain.”

He kissed me again, and I melted into the memories of our kisses—but not this one. This one made it hard to believe my body had ever wanted his touch. This one had me wondering whether my stomach still knew how to flutter.

Maybe there was something wrong with me.

“I’m gonna fix this.” He pulled away from the kiss. “You come first, work is second.”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I’d be happy with being tied for first place.”

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