Page 87 of Fair Catch

“Roommate,huh?” he teases, his eyes glittering. “I dunno, that sounds more like boyfriend material to me.”

The word has me pausing now, lowering my fork back to my plate as I map his face. “Is that what I am?”

“Do you want to be?” He cocks his head, that goofy little smile on his lips. “I mean, I thought it was kinda an unspoken thing, since we’re not seeing other people, but if you don’t want the label—”

“No, it’s nothing like that,” I immediately answer. “I just hadn’t really thought about it in any specific term.”

“Okay, then yeah, you’re my boyfriend. Happy?”

I am, yeah. And there’s a sliver of me—the logical, driven side—that hates how much. Because I’m well aware that the way my chest and stomach constantly swirl and tighten and flutter are far from fucking normal.

But apparently, I don’t have it in me to care nor do a damn thing to stop it.

So instead, I lean into it.

“Well, then, yes. As a good boyfriend, I think it’s my job to track your stats. And to tell you that your receiving yards for the last two years have been the highest in the conference, this year alone is the third highest in the country, and if you get forty-five more by the end of the regular season, you’ll break the school record.” I pause, cocking my head in his direction and begging him to discredit the facts. “So tell me again how you think you won’t get drafted, because numbers don’t lie, baby.”

He stares at me, dumbfounded, his fork clattering to the countertop.

“What?” I frown before shoving another bite of food in my mouth.

“Nothing, it’s just…sometimes I forget how stupidly smart you are,” he murmurs before picking up his fork again.

“That’s an oxymoron if I’ve ever heard one.”

Kason blinks a couple times, his brows furrowing at the center. “And apparently I’m just a moron, because I have no fucking clue what that is.”

“It’s kinda like a paradox.”

He shakes his head again. “Nope, not a clue.”

“Jumbo shrimp. Old news. Pretty ugly. Two things that contradict each other but are still placed together.”

“Oh, okay. Yeah, I didn’t realize that’s what those are called.” He gives me a sheepish grin when he spears a piece of broccoli with his fork. “I kinda cheated off Phoenix in English all through high school. Just a little bit.”

I laugh, not sure if I should be mortified or amused by that piece of information. “You were definitely the kid I hated back in those days. The jocks always used to fight about sitting near me in school, especially math class.”

“Oh, I have no doubt about that,” he says immediately, shaking his head. “Then again, there was a good period of time where I was the kid you hated these days too, remember?”

I do, but damn if it doesn’t feel like a thousand years ago rather than a couple months.

Honestly, it’s hard to believe there was ever a point where I didn’t like Kason, didn’t want him around, didn’t see him for all the deep intricacies of who he is below the surface.

It’s even harder to believe I could’ve missed out on him, all because of my stubborn, bull-headed nature. And knowing the amount of time I’ve already wasted makes it hard for me to rationalize wasting any more.

Setting my fork on the counter, I look over at him, a little nervous about the answer to my next question. “Do you wanna come for Thanksgiving dinner? To my parents’ house, I mean?”

He pauses, a bite halfway to his mouth, and frowns. “Do you want me to come?”

“I always want you to come, baby,” I murmur, my voice low and seductive as my lips lift in a filthy smirk. His cheeks bloom pink, like they often do when he leaves himself open for my dirty jokes, and I give him the small mercy of rerouting to the original question. “But yes, I’d also like you to accept my invitation. And if it’ll make you more comfortable, you don’t have to come as anything other than my roommate. Whatever you want.”

“They won’t mind?”

“Not at all.” I turn on my stool to face him, one arm resting on the counter, the other on the back of my chair. “I can’t tell you how many family holidays or vacations Quinton has crashed over the years, and they didn’t care then.” He still doesn’t respond, clearly unconvinced when I add, “This is one dinner, Kase. I promise, they won’t mind. I just don’t want you to spend the holiday alone when I’ll be twenty minutes down the road having some ridiculous feast my mom is inevitably preparing.”

“Okay. Then I’ll come,” he whispers, that shy, sexy little smile tugging at his lips.

I let out a low, appreciative hum, unable to stop myself from teasing him on his word choice yet again.

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