Page 70 of The Wrong Play

I stared at him, caught off guard. My brain short-circuited for a second, Jace’s face flashing through it…but I shoved it down, glancing at Danny closer than I ever had before. He was handsome enough, pleasing to the eye when you looked, but not enough to actually make you look in the first place. He had kind eyes, if that was a thing. He was…safe. A guy who wouldn’t follow me into elevators, leave me a trembling mess, and then stalk me across campus.

A guy who wouldn’t break my heart.

If I went out with him, maybe Jace would know I was serious about not getting involved…since his number on my cheek at the game had definitely sent off mixed signals.

“Yeah,” I said, forcing a smile. “That sounds nice. Friday works.”

His face lit up, a wide grin breaking through his nerves, making him nicer looking in a wholesome, golden-retriever kind of way. “Awesome, I’ll pick you up at seven, and we can go to that Italian restaurant on Elm—Giovanni’s? Well—if you even like Italian?” he asked awkwardly.

“Italian’s great,” I murmured, trying to ignore the weird twist in my gut. Danny was a palate cleanser, a reset. This would be good for me. “See you then?”

“Great,” he said, backing away, flashing that smile again—bright and uncomplicated. “Oh, what dorm are you?” he asked.

Right, because it wasn’t normal for someone to just know everything about you without you telling them…another way he was safer than Jace.

“Carrick Hall,” I said, immediately wishing that I’d just told him I’d meet him at the restaurant.

He nodded. “See you, Riley.” He left, and I stood there, staring at the humming vending machine, wondering why “safe” felt so wrong.

Friday night crept up, and I stood in front of my mirror, fussing with the hem of my soft gray sweater. I’d paired it with dark wide-leg jeans and ankle boots. Simple, comfy, not trying too hard. Danny didn’t strike me as the type to care about plunging necklines or stilettos, and I wasn’t in the mood to play vixenanyway. My hair fell in loose waves, brushing my shoulders, and I swiped on some gloss, the faint berry scent clinging to my lips. I grabbed my purse, checked the clock—six-fifty—and hesitated, my phone sitting dark on the dresser.

I shouldn’t have looked. I should’ve just walked out. But my hand moved anyway, unlocking the screen, and there it was: a text from Jace, timestamped ten minutes ago. No words, just a selfie—him shirtless in a bathroom, leaning against the wall, one hand raking through his long blond hair, the other snapping the pic. His abs were on full display, all ridges and shadows, sweat gleaming from a workout, that v-line dipping into his low-slung sweats like a freaking invitation. His smirk was pure sin, his eyes glinting with that cocky, I-know-you-want-me stare, and lust hit me like a freight train, hot and sudden, pooling low in my belly.

“Fuck,” I muttered, gripping the dresser, my thighs clenching as I stared at the screen. My pulse raced, heat flushing my face, and I could almost feel him—his breath on my neck, his hands pinning me, that elevator moment replaying in vivid, torturous detail. I should just delete the picture, but my fingers seemed to have a mind of their own, traitorously tempted to zoom in on those abs.

I forced myself to shut the phone off, shoving it into my purse.

But the image stayed burned into me, an itch I couldn’t scratch as I forced myself out the door.

Danny was waiting outside, leaning against a black Honda, his hands in his pockets. He looked good in his crisp white polo, his dark jeans that fit just right. His hair was swept back from his face and when he saw me, he smiled, all warmth and no edge. “Hey, Riley,” he said, opening the passenger door. “You look great.”

“Thanks,” I said, sliding inside. “You too,” I added. My voice was steady, but my skin was buzzing, Jace’s selfie still simmeringin my veins. I did my best to shove it down, focusing on Danny as he climbed in, the car smelling faintly of an ocean scented air freshener.

The drive to Giovanni’s was quick. Danny was chatting about one of his classes, a project he was stressed over, and I nodded along, half-listening, the city lights smearing gold and red across the windshield.

The restaurant glowed ahead, all warm brick and ivy curling up the walls. We parked and walked inside, the scent of garlic and basil immediately surrounding me. It was cozy, with its dim lights, red-checkered tablecloths, and candles flickering in little glass holders. A hostess led us to a booth, and I sank into the cushioned bench, the murmur of voices and clink of dishes wrapping around us.

The hostess handed us our menus and stepped away. “Ever been here?” he asked, scanning his own.

“Nope,” I said, flipping it open, the list of pastas and wines blurring as Jace’s abs flashed through my head again. I blinked. Hard. Trying to focus. Danny said something about carbonara, and I nodded.

Crap.Why had I looked at that picture?

“I’m leaning toward the lasagna,” he said, setting his menu down. “Mama makes it all the time—hers is killer.”

“Yum,” I said lamely.

Danny started talking about his “mama,” and while charming when mentioned once…it was obvious that he was ahugemama’s boy. I couldn’t relate to him about that, obviously, so all I could do was hum along like I was interested.

The waiter swung by, and I ordered the carbonara, while Danny ordered the lasagna, plus a glass of water for each of us. The restaurant hummed with life, couples chatting over plates of ravioli, a kid giggling two tables over, spilling spaghetti on hisshirt. I sipped my water, letting it settle me, trying to drown the heat Jace had sparked.

The food arrived in fat, steaming plates of pasta. My carbonara glistened, rich with pancetta and cream, and Danny’s lasagna was a gooey stack of cheese and meat. “This is unreal,” he said, digging in, his fork scraping the plate. “Mama might be dethroned.”

I twirled a bite, the sauce coating my tongue, and nodded. “Yeah, this is delicious.” He smiled, and I relaxed a bit more, the food warming my chest, the night almost…normal. Almost good.

We talked—small stuff, stats class, his dog back home—a golden retriever named Spot, because, of course, he would have named his dog that—and I let myself sink into it. The candlelight softened his features, making him look even better. His eyes crinkled when he smiled, and his laugh was light, unforced. “So,” he said, sipping his water. “Are you into football? I saw you at Saturday’s game.”

I froze mid-bite, Jace’s smirking face slamming back into me. “Uh, yeah,” I said, swallowing hard. “It’s…fun, I guess.” My voice sounded off, and I cursed myself, shoving another bite in to cover it.

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