Page 102 of Playing for the Hat Trick
I brace myself for the no; for the moment, she shuts me out for good.
But after a beat, Scottie hesitates—just enough for the war to flash across her face.
Run or stay. Deny or maybe—just maybe—trust.
Then she nods.
Once. Sharp and defiant, like she’s not agreeing to a walk but daring herself to believe in something more.
I fall into step beside her, keeping a polite distance even though every nerve in my body itches to close it. To brush my hand against hers. To pull her back into me and pick up exactly where we left off before her brother decided to crash our lives with a stroller.
We weave through the waking city in near silence. Coffee carts clang to life. Dogs tug at their leashes. A busker plays a rough version of ‘Here Comes the Sun’ somewhere in the distance. Life is moving forward like nothing catastrophic just happened.
The tension between us unwinds, slowly and cautiously, thread by fragile thread.
She bumps her shoulder into mine at a crosswalk—not hard, but deliberate—and mumbles, “You’re an idiot. That whole speech . . . bacon.” She snorts under her breath. “Just a reminder that I can’t take care of myself.”
I shrug slightly, letting a grin creep across my mouth. “I know you can.” I glance at her sideways. “But let’s get this straight . . . I’m your idiot. Kind of. Hopefully, with that title comes a lot of responsibilities, like making sure you’re happy.”
Her mouth twitches like she’s fighting a smile—and this time, she doesn’t pull away.
We reach her building way too soon, and the closer we get, the more she seems to fold in on herself. Tucking into her armor again. Like once we cross that invisible line, all of this—everything we could’ve had in the sunlight—gets left behind on the sidewalk.
I linger at the bottom step. Hands jammed into my pockets to keep from reaching out like a completely desperate asshole. She turns to face me, hoodie sleeves swallowed up around her fists, hair a little wild from the breeze, looking so gorgeous it actually hurts to breathe.
“Thanks,” she says, voice low, almost shy.
“For what?” I ask, tilting my head.
“For . . . not making it worse.”
I bark out a laugh, surprised by the honesty in it. “Is that the official Crawford stamp of approval? ‘Didn’t Make It Worse’?”
Her lips curve, not a full smile but something close enough to make my heart do a dumb, hopeful skip.
It’s a moment. A stupid, precious, perfect fucking moment—and for one terrifying second, I think about leaning in. About kissing her again and daring the whole goddamn universe to stop me.
Instead, I rock back on my heels and say, “Text me if you need anything. Or if you want to yell at me. Or if you just want more pretzels. Or sex. Really, I’m flexible.”
Scottie bites her lip, the way she does when she’s trying not to laugh—and loses. A soft, breathy sound that cracks open the world just a little bit wider.
“Okay,” she says so quietly, it’s almost a secret.
The doorman glances over, recognizing her, and pushes open the door with a nod. Scottie flashes him a quick smile beforeslipping inside, vanishing into the lobby with one last look over her shoulder—one that just about drops me to my knees.
I wait until she’s safely inside before turning away, grinning like a goddamn lunatic as I head down the street.
Hope, as it turns out, is a hell of a drug.
And I’m already addicted.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Scottie: You make it home?
Jason: Close. I’m at Jacob’s office. We’re talking with the team about the next steps.
Scottie: You’re not fully recovered.
