Page 96 of Playing for the Hat Trick
“I’m wearing a skirt.” She deflects, but I know I've hit a nerve even when she doesn’t say it.
It should piss me off, but somehow it just makes me want to kiss her senseless. God, she’s impossible. Impossible and stubborn and my absolute fucking favorite mistake I refuse to regret.
I lift a hand, hovering it between us, not quite touching, giving her the choice she clearly doesn’t want to make. “But here’s the thing, Scottie.” My voice drops, my heart damn near hammering out of my chest. “I’m not scared of this. Of us. You are.”
She flinches—just a tiny, broken tremor that splits me wide open. I see it. The fear she’s trying so damn hard to deny.
“I’m not scared,” she lies, but there’s no real fight behind it. Just fear.
“You’re terrified.”
Stillness.
Silence.
Her hands tighten on the mug like it’s the only thing tethering her to the earth. She sways just a little and then drops her head, letting her shoulders slump the way they never do unless she’s ready to admit the thing that scares her most.
“I don’t know how to do this if it’s real.” She’s so quiet, I almost miss it.
The words hang there—soft, broken, terrifying. I don’t rush to fill the silence. I let it settle, let her hear, feel, and taste it. Only then do I move.
Slowly, I close the distance, brushing my fingers against hers, a feather-light touch that feels heavier than any kiss. “Me neither,” I admit. “Don’t think I’m not scared too. I’ve never done this before, either. You’re not just anyone I can screw up with and pretend it didn’t matter.”
My hand tightens just a little, grounding us both.
“You’re it, Scottie. No one else even comes close.”
Her fingers twitch against mine, and it’s small, barely anything, but it’s enough to make the world shift under my feet. She’s scared. I’m scared. But maybe, just maybe, we’re afraid of the same thing.
“Let’s figure it out together,” I whisper.
No grand promises. No perfect plan. Just two stubborn idiots standing in my kitchen, choosing each other even though it terrifies us both.
Chapter Thirty
Jason
Rules of Engagement (And How to Break Them)
The coffee’s gone cold. My plate’s mostly wiped clean, but Scottie’s barely touched hers—just swiped a piece of bacon before slipping into a full-blown what-the-fuck-is-this spiral. I should’ve been ready.
I should’ve anticipated the inevitable existential breakfast crisis, but my brain went full goo-mode the second I kissedher. In fact, I’m still piecing myself back together from the emotional wreckage. I wasn’t expecting that kiss to feel like getting T-boned by a freight train of feelings. And everything that happened after that . . . fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
I haven’t exactly sorted through the aftermath. There’s one thing I’m certain of: I don’t want to let her go.
Not that I have her.
That would imply possession and Scottie’s more like an elusive unicorn in an enchanted forest about to close for the public. I blink, and she’s here. Blink again, and I’m half convinced she’s already halfway out the door.
We could go ahead and file this morning under Clusterfucks, Subcategory: Romantic Limbo, with a dash of Unspoken Longing and Poor Communication.
She’s been pretending to need “just another second” for about five whole minutes now, sitting at the counter with her mug gripped like a lifeline, eyes lost somewhere over the sink. I have no clue where her mind’s gone, but it’s clear she’s either searching for a reason to stay—or stalling long enough to gather the nerve to flee. She won’t meet my eyes. Not really. Just these fast little glances when she thinks I’m not paying attention, like if she doesn’t lock eyes with me, maybe she can pretend this is just breakfast. Just bacon and cold coffee. Not a shift in the axis of our whole fucked-up dynamic.
I lean back against the counter. Arms crossed, pretending I’m not studying every twitch of her mouth, every curse under her breath, every quick look toward the door like it’s offering her a clean escape. She mutters something low, frustrated, barely audible. I don’t catch every word but feel it in my bones. She’s buzzing beneath her skin like she’s ready to explode—or vanish.
I rinse our mugs and slide them into the sink, catching her from the corner of my eye, perched on the edge of the stool like she’s deciding whether the front door or the window would makea faster escape route. Honestly, with Scottie, it could go either way. I dry my hands on a dishtowel and turn toward her, my heart pounding way too hard for what’s supposed to be a casual suggestion.
“Come on, let’s go on a walk,” I offer.
