Page 99 of How to Lose at Love

“Appears that way.”

He’s still leaning against his truck, seeming in no hurry to be anywhere—except it’s cold and I’d rather not stand here.

“How are you not freezing cold?”

I shiver.

“I just ran my ass off for three hours, in case you didn’t notice.”

Oh, I noticed all right.

I noticed, myfriendsnoticed—heck, the whole world noticed considering the game was televised.

“You’re moist, though. You should still put a jacket on even if you’re not cold.”

“Did you just call me moist?”

“Isaidyou’re moist. I didn’tcallyou moist. There’s a difference.” He needs to cover up so he doesn’t get sick.

I tousle his hair. “You’re wet.”

Damp.

Not dry enough tonotget a cold or the flu if he’s going to insist on standing out here.

I hug myself and dramatically say, “Brrr,” hoping he gets the picture and hurries to the point.

Instead, Dallas laughs.

“Why are you laughing?” I huff. “And why are we just standing here? You asked me to come out here and—”

Suddenly, I’m pressed against his body, and the heat radiating is the first thing I notice besides his warm breath against my ear. “You’re so cute when you’re mad.”

“I’m not mad,” I argue. “I’m…I’m…” Not mad. I’m flustered and confused and want to be warm. I want to not be standing outside, want to be inside where it’s warmer even if that means climbing inside the cab of his truck—which he doesn’t even have running yet.

What is this, amateur hour?! Start the engine, man.

“Y-you’re what?” he whispers, and it’s not so busy that I can’t hear him, cars emptying the parking lot until their numbers dwindle.

“I’m cold.”

His large arms go around me, instantly warming my body but still not enough. “I’ll warm you up.”

I can’t help myself; I laugh.

Instead of melting or swooning like so many of my friends would, I laugh at Dallas Colter and his attempt to be suave and sexy.

It’s comedic at best because it’s out of character for him.

Sure, he has sex appeal because of the hard muscles and good-looking face, but Dallas is anything but. He’s rigid and serious and has to force himself not to scowl; therefore, it’s not my fault if I burst out giggling.

“You’re an asshole,” he grumbles, my nose pressed to his chest. “Do you know that?”

“Yes, I’m aware.”

His arms are still around me, my face still pressed against his pecs, cheek brushing the cool skin of his shoulder. When I tilt my head up to look in his eyes, he dips, lips pressing against mine.

It takes me by surprise, this kiss, but I’m up on my tiptoes before I can think it through, reveling in how warm his mouth is. Soft. Heated.

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