Page 89 of Second Chance with the Single Dad Goalie
I don’t miss the flicker of suspicion in his eyes though as he pops a fry into his mouth.
The conversation moves on, but my pulse doesn’t settle. I feel hot. The restaurant suddenly feels too small, too loud, too much. I need air.
After a while, I push my chair back. “I’ll be right back.” I don’t wait for a response before stepping outside.
The night air is crisp, cooling my overheated skin as I lean against the restaurant’s wall, inhaling deeply.
Keith suspects something.
I know him. He jokes, but he also notices things. And Blake - Blake isn’t helping.
I run a hand over my face, exhaling slowly. It’s fine. It’s not like there’s anything to suspect, right?
Right.
I turn to head back inside - only to find Blake stepping out.
His eyes flick over me, brows pulling together. “You okay?”
I let out a breathless, humorless laugh. “Okay? Do I look okay?” I glare at him. “Keith is suspicious. I know there’s nothing going on between us…, I mean maybe…, but…, Keith…”
Blake shrugs, unfazed. “So?”
“So?” My voice hitches. “Why would you give me your steak? Why did you say that? Why did you say it like that?” I throw my hands up. “You’re making things complicated for me.”
Blake exhales through his nose, shaking his head. “Why are you so afraid of admitting how you feel?”
My pulse stutters. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” His voice is calm, too calm.
I fold my arms. “Whatever I felt for you died four years ago.”
He walks closer to me, so close I can feel his breath on my face, gaze unreadable. “Then why are you so flustered right now?”
I open my mouth, then close it.
He watches me for a moment longer before stepping away, sighing. “We’ll continue this at home.” He nods toward the door. “Let’s go in.”
And just like that, he opens the door, waiting for me to follow.
I am so screwed.
Chapter eighteen
Blake
Restless. That’s what I am.
The kind of restlessness that makes it impossible to sit still, keeps my thoughts tangled.
I drag a hand down my face, exhaling through my nose. The house is quiet except for the low hum of the TV, the flickering light casting long shadows across the room. I’ve been sitting here for hours, staring at the screen without actually watching. The volume’s low. It doesn’t matter. I wouldn’t be able to focus anyway.
Because my mind isn’t here. It’s upstairs, trapped behind a closed door.
Where Whitney has been since we got back from dinner.
I rake my fingers through my hair, shifting on the couch. She barely looked at me on the drive home. Barely said a word. Her silence said more than words ever could. And I get it. She’s mad. I just don’t know if it’s at me, or the entire situation.
