Page 33 of Calling the Shots

“I’m guessing this is good night then.” His voice is low and husky as he stares across the room at me.

I shrug. “Like I said, it’s a school night.”

“Too bad.” There’s a hint of regret in his tone as he pulls his pants on, shimmying into the denim and zipping up. My stomach flutters, my heart warring with my wind. Much as I want him to stay, long to wake up in his strong arms, I’m not going to take that risk again. Put myself out there like I did last time.

I don’t want to wind up looking like a sappy fool, my feelings smushed like a lovebug on a car grille.

Nope.

“Okay then.” He stands up, runs his fingers through his messy waves before pulling the T-shirt over his head.

Bye-bye, abs.

Sadness twinges low in my belly, but I push it away. I can’t dwell on feelings right now, not while Mack’s still here. So close to me, the scent of pine and sex floating through the living room air. My body still warm in all the places he touched me, my thighs slick and sticky.

I need to get him out of here before I break down and cave, give in to my desires.

“I have to be up early tomorrow.” I throw his words right back at him, although I don’t sound very convincing.

“Right.” He presses his lips together, a vein popping in his neck.

The air shifts between us, both of our guards up now. I don’t know where I stand with him, his expression blank and jaw tense.

Wrapping my arms around my stomach, my shoulders slump as he gathers his phone and keys without a word.

“Well, thanks for tonight, Gracelyn.” He spins to face me, his eyes flicking to my face. My breath hitches as he locks his gaze on mine for a long second.

“Welcome,” I murmur, my voice barely above a whisper.

Everything about this feels wrong.

I want him to stay.

Want him to say something—anything—to give me hope for the future, for us.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he tips my chin up and presses his lips to mine in a tender kiss.

A kiss that feels very much like goodbye.

Tears sting my eyes and I’m happy they’re closed. I’m not going to give Mack the satisfaction of witnessing me cry over him.

What we have going on is clearly a fling, nothing serious.

“Night, Gracelyn.”

“Night, Mack.”

He lets himself out this time and I stare at his retreating backside, a lump in my throat. The door clicks closed and then there’s silence.

Tap, tap, tap.

“Lock your door, baby.” His muffled voice carries through the wood and one hot tear slides down my face as I hurry to the door and slide the deadbolt into place.

“That’s a good girl.”

I brush the tear away along with the strong feeling of déjà vu.

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