Page 37 of Never Your Girl

I still can’t believe she did that.

On second thought… yes, I can.

Holland is a ticking time bomb, waiting for the right moment to detonate.

It’s all part of her charm.

My gaze lingers on the sleeping woman, studying her in the quiet of the morning as her thick auburn hair spills across the cream-colored pillowcase like a fiery halo. She’s all sharp edges and defiance when she’s awake, but here, in this moment, she looks peaceful.

Softer.

Vulnerable in a way she’d probably throat-punch me for noticing.

Her long lashes fan across her cheeks, and her lips—Jesus, those lips.

Full, plush, and just slightly parted, like she’s in the middle of a dream.

Unable to help myself, I reach out and run my fingers through a loose tendril of her hair, marveling at the silkiness of the strands. My mind drifts to what those lips would feel like on me. I can still remember what they felt like two years ago, but it wasn’t nearly enough to satiate the deep craving inside.

What if I hadn’t gotten scared and run?

What if I’d stayed?

And we started something real?

My jaw tightens as I shove the thought away.

There’s no sense dwelling on things that can’t be changed.

Still, the sight of her in my bed both unsettles and satisfies me at the same time.

Someone needs to explain how that’s possible.

Better yet, how do I make it stop?

I drop the lock of hair before sliding carefully from the bed, not wanting to wake her. I need space to breathe, to think, to wrap my head around what I’ve done.

Just as I’m about to leave the room, I glance back.

It’s impossible to ignore the pull, the way she’s somehow rooted herself in the parts of me I thought were untouchable. The steady rise and fall of her breathing is the only sound in the room. For a moment, I stand frozen, watching her.

She looks peaceful, her features soft and relaxed in sleep, a stark contrast to the fire and sharp edges she carries when awake.

The sight of her tangled in my sheets feels right in a way it shouldn’t.

The most fucked-up part of all this is that I don’t regret blackmailing her.

Not even a little.

I like having Holland Tate at my mercy.

Five minutes later, I’m dressed and heading downstairs. The last thing I need is to be late after Coach was up my ass at practice. As I hit the bottom step, I freeze.

Ryder, Hayes, Riggs, Steele, and Maverick occupy the couches, looking strangely serious. Ford, Colby, Wolf, and Madden, my teammates who don’t live here, are perched on chair arms.

The low hum of conversation dies as they notice me, and a heavy silence follows.

My eyes narrow. “Why aren’t you guys at practice?”

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