Page 105 of Playing for the Hat Trick
I want the whole stupid thing.
Even if it means risking everything.
Even if it means handing my heart to a man who’s probably going to wreck it beautifully.
I close my eyes and press the heels of my hands into them until stars bloom behind my lids. It doesn’t help. Nothing’s going to help.
Jason Tate wasn’t supposed to look at me like I was it, but he fucking did. It’s as if I’m everything he didn’t know he needed until I crashed into his life wearing bad ideas and stubborn pride.
And the worst part—the part that’s still unraveling me right now, hours later, as I pace my apartment like a lunatic—is that when I met his eyes this morning, still tangled in his sheets, still tasting him on my lips . . .
I didn’t look away.
I didn’t run.
Some tiny, desperate part of me leaned closer instead. The same reckless part of me wanted more.
More of the way his hands curled around my waist like I was breakable.
More of the way he kissed me afterward—slow, lingering, almost reverent—like sex wasn’t the end but the beginning of something bigger, scarier, better.
I’m so fucked.
Because if Jason decides to fight for me—and let’s be honest, he already has—I don’t know if I have it in me to fight back.
Not really.
Not when everything inside me already feels like it’s folding toward him without permission.
Not when the memory of his mouth on my skin still burns hotter than the sun pouring through my windows.
The knock on my door feels like a divine intervention. Or at least a temporary break from spiraling myself into a full existential meltdown. I frown, wondering why the doorman didn’t call up first—unless . . .
I groan, dragging a hand down my face.
There are precisely three groups of people who can bypass security and show up unannounced, among them my parents, and . . . I groan because this has to be one of my brothers. Yep, Leif complained, and now I have to deal with him or possibly Killion. Maybe both. If it’s Leif, I’m going to need alcohol or at least a pound of chocolate just to survive the first five minutes.
When I open the door, it’s my adorable sisters-in-law. Well, there are three of them, but that’s plenty. Listen, I love them, but right now, I’d prefer not to deal with anyone.
Hailey, Cam, and Valentina enter my apartment without waiting for an invitation. Hailey’s carrying a bag from the fancy bakery down the street. Cam’s got a bottle of wine in one hand and a bottle of tequila in the other, looking entirely too pleased with herself. Valentina’s got a giant tote bag slung over one shoulder and . . . a blender?
I blink at them, pointing at Val. “You’re supposed to be in Boston.”
“Not today,” she says breezily, stepping inside like she owns the place. “I came down for a client meeting. I was at Jacob’s office when . . .” She trails off with a shrug like it naturally explains why she’s here.
I narrow my eyes. “Did someone die?”
“Yeah,” Hailey chirps, dropping the pastry bag on the counter. “You. Of emotional constipation.”
Cam pops the cork on the wine with a dramatic flourish and immediately pours it into the nearest coffee mug. “We’re here to save you.”
Valentina drops her tote on the counter and starts setting up what looks suspiciously like margarita supplies. “Or stage an exorcism. Whichever gets results faster.”
“An exorcism with tequila?” I arch an eyebrow.
“And lime,” she says solemnly. “The lime is crucial, my friend.”
I cross my arms, glaring at them. “I’m fine.”
