Page 91 of Playing for the Hat Trick
My mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.
“No, thank you,” I manage, then blurt out, “I don’t need you to feed me.”
“Didn’t say you needed it,” he responds, as if he’s expecting me to lash out and is ready not to take the bait. “I said I’m making it.”
He plates the eggs and bacon with maddening calm, pours coffee into two matching mugs like this is just another morningin his life. I watch him move—precise, focused. He’s probably absurdly good at hosting brunch, and I hate how easily he fits into this domestic fantasy.
I eye the plate.
Then him.
Then, the plate again.
“Don’t confuse post-coital breakfast with emotional attachment,” I warn, arms crossing like that’ll shield me from how good it smells.
He slides the plate across the counter, deadpan as ever. “I’m literally offering you eggs, not a mortgage.”
I grab a piece of bacon and take a bite just to shut him up.
It’s perfect.
Of course, it’s perfect.
He cooks like he fucks—confident, precise, and just smug enough to make me want to scream and beg for more in the same breath.
I sit on a stool, the granite counter cool under my bare thighs. He slides the mug toward me, and I take a sip, trying not to moan at the flavor.
“This doesn’t mean anything,” I say between sips.
Jason leans on his elbows, sipping from his mug and watching me with an unreadable gaze that makes my spine twitch.
“It means you have to eat.”
“No, I mean this,” I clarify, gesturing between us like it’s a third party I can argue with. “Last night was amazing. Wildly efficient. Top-tier. But it doesn’t change the fact that this is nothing. Just . . . casual.”
He hums. Low. Noncommittal. “If you say so.”
“I do say so,” I snap, chewing another bite of bacon like I’m proving a point through pork. “I just want to be clear. No expectations.”
“You’re eating my food and defining boundaries like you’re trying to convince yourself,” he says, completely unbothered.
I freeze.
Then recover—barely. “I’m establishing terms.”
“Of course you are.”
My phone rings. I walk toward the couch where I left it, and reach for it, grateful for the distraction, only to find a cluster of missed calls and texts lighting up my screen.
Four missed calls from Papa. Two from Dad. A dozen texts from Hailey.
Perfect.
Hailey: Blink twice if you need me to rescue you.
Hailey: Okay, I assume you don’t need rescuing . . . do you need extra condoms?
Hailey: Did you make it home, Ella Crawford?
