Page 85 of Play the Game

It's no wonder I slept so well.

Embarrassment flies to my cheeks, and in an attempt to hide it, I fling the blanket off my legs and stand. As stubborn as he is, Emory actually takes a step backward and moves out of my way. I stalk to the kitchen on the hunt for coffee because I’m suddenly feelingverypeeved.

What was I thinking?

Last night was an out-of-body experience. All I can picture is Emory standing over me with his hand in between my legs, coaxing me to touch myself.

It’s like I’m just handing him ammunition to use against me whenever he sees fit.

I have yet to forget his trust issues when it comes to women, just like I have yet to forget his threats before agreeing to become his wife.

Just as I’m about to snap some remark at him about forgetting last night ever happened, I stop in the middle of the kitchen.

Sitting on the middle of the counter is my favorite I-fucked-your-sister mug with steam drifting over top of the rim. Beside it is a white bag with the logoChicago Bakesstamped on the front.

Did he...?

I pull the warm mug toward me. It’s the exact shade of tan that I like, and I have no idea how he managed to pour the right amount of oat milk in it. The white bag crinkles when I hesitantly open it and look inside. My mouth waters when notes of vanilla and almond drift toward my face.

I’m at a loss for words.

My peeved mood disappears as I waver between confusion and satisfaction.

For the life of me, I can’t remember the last time someone did something nice for me without there being strings attached.

Aside from William making me PopTarts every morning, despite me telling him I didn’t like them, I can’t recall a single event when someone made me something to eat or, better yet, poured me a cup of coffee.

My eyes gloss over, and I almost drop my cup.

With a shaky hand, I place the mug back on the counter and smash my lips together until I hear Emory clear his throat.

“Eat up, Scottie Biscotti.”

Instead of being angry at the stupid nickname he gave me on national television, the smallest smile falls to my lips.

“You have plans.” He sounds too cheerful.

There goes my smile.

I pull the mug back to my chest, letting the warmth seep through my thin cotton shirt. When I slowly turn, I catch Emory’s quick glance at my bare legs sticking out from beneath the hem. Butterflies take over my stomach, and I curse every last one.

I clear my throat, just like he did. When he drags his gaze back to my face, he tips his mug backward and chugs the rest of his coffee.

“Plans?” I’m instantly apprehensive. Iswearif he mentions last night or something about cleaning his bathroom sink, I am going to throw the biscotti at his head.

“You need a dress.”

I pause. “Excuse me?”

“I forgot to mention the charity event you’re expected to be at.”

My eyebrows rise. “You mean the charity event thatyou’reexpected to be at. You’re the star hockey player. I’m just?—”

“My wife.”

The look of rugged possessiveness that takes over his face is completely uncalled for. What else is uncalled for is the thrill that I feel when I hear him call me his wife in that tone. Is he doing that because I admitted that I liked it?

I hold up the biscotti in my hand and point it at him. “Is this why you got me a biscotti? Are you trying to bribe me into going to a charity event with you?”

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