Page 97 of Playing for the Hat Trick
She blinks like I just suggested she skydive without a parachute. “What?”
“A walk. Fresh air. Central Park’s three blocks away.”
Her mouth opens. Closes. “I can’t?—”
I should brace myself for . . . what is she going to say? More excuses of why we can’t be adults about this, us?
I cut her off before she gets the momentum. “No pressure. No hidden agenda. Just . . . a break. I think we could use one. Clear our heads. Breathe after . . . last night was intense, and right now is not much different.”
She stares at me for a long beat, jaw tight, weighing whether this is safe—or stupid. Probably both. Then she lets out a sigh, deep and dramatic, and shoves her hands into the wrinkled skirt she threw on in a flurry of denial this morning.
“Fine,” she mutters.
Not enthusiastic. But not no. That’s a fucking win.
I grab my keys, wallet, and the hoodie hanging off the back of the chair and toss it toward her without thinking. “Here. It’s windy.”
She catches it, frowns at me. “Aren’t you going to wear a shirt or something?”
I scoff, rolling my eyes. “Obviously.”
Her gaze trails over me, landing on my bare chest for a beat too long, and, yeah—I clock that. I absolutely clock that. But I don’t comment. Instead, I back toward the hallway, already peeling off toward the bedroom to throw on a t-shirt before she changes her mind and disappears. I rush. Not in a cool, casual way. In a shit-she-might-ditch-me-if-I-take-too-long way. Because she would, Scottie would absolutely vanish mid-putting-on-shoes, and I’d be left standing on the sidewalk like a dumbass holding two lattes and a daydream.
I tug on a black tee, grab sneakers, and call out, “Don’t climb out the fire escape. I’ll know.”
Her voice comes back dry. “You don’t own the fire escape, Tate.”
I definitely notice she looks way too good in my hoodie. Almost as good as she looks in nothing but my shirt. It takes an obscene amount of self-control not to drag her right back to bed and show her exactly how much I appreciate her stealing my clothes.
“Ready?” I ask, my voice rougher than I intended.
She lifts her chin, all stubborn defiance wrapped in soft cotton. “Lead the way, Jason.”
Outside, the city hums to life around us. It’s one of those late spring mornings where the air’s crisp enough to wake you up, but the sun’s already flirting with summer. Perfect weather for pretending everything’s fine, even when it’s very fucking clear neither of us has a clue what we’re doing.
We walk in silence at first, a few feet of polite, painful distance between us. I let her have it, even though every part of me wants to close the gap, to feel her bump into me and roll her eyes when I pretend it’s her fault. She needs space right now. I get it. I hate it. But I get it.
The closer we get to the park, the more her body starts to loosen, inch by careful inch. Her shoulders aren’t quite so rigid. The line of her mouth softens from battle-ready to something almost . . . normal. By the time we hit the path where vendors are selling pretzels, balloons, and questionable hot dogs that probably violate at least three health codes, she even lets out a real, honest-to-God snort at the sight of a bulldog being pushed in a stroller.
“Don’t judge that dog,” I tease, nudging her lightly with my elbow.
She shakes her head, hiding a reluctant smile. “It’s wearing sunglasses.”
“And a tutu,” I point out, grinning.
She hums thoughtfully. “I should send Lucian a tutu for Sarah.”
I frown, thrown. Does Luc have a daughter, a girlfriend . . . I recall Leif mentioning there’s a vet or something in his house the other day, but . . . “Who’s Sarah?”
“You don’t know Sarah?” Scottie looks at me, appalled. “His canine-furry-child. She’s sweet, but she’s basically a four-legged escape artist. Luc enables her like a guilty single dad who missed her childhood and now lets her rob banks if she wants.”
I chuckle, picturing it way too vividly. “Sounds like she and Lucian deserve each other.”
“Oh, they do,” she says, laughing under her breath. “She once figured out how to open his kitchen cabinets and hid as many dog food cans as she could under the couch. It took him two days to find them.”
That draws a full laugh out of me, and just like that, the tension between us eases another degree.
We veer off the main road, stepping onto one of the quieter side paths where the gravel crunches under our sneakers and sunlight filters through the trees in broken, golden patches. Scottie tugs the sleeves of my hoodie over her hands and mutters, half to herself, “This doesn’t mean I’m not still leaving after this.”
