Page 9 of The Playmaker
I step out into the cooler air. The party noise dims behindme. She doesn't turn, but her shoulders tense slightly. She knows I'm here.
"Running from me already, Monroe?" I keep my voice light, teasing.
"Just needed air." She doesn't look at me. "Too many egos in one room."
I laugh, moving beside her at the railing. "Including mine?"
"Especially yours." Now she turns, and there's something in her eyes—a challenge, yes, but something else. Curiosity. Like she's trying to solve a puzzle.
"You know, most people would be flattered to have my attention."
"I'm not most people."
"No," I agree, studying her face in the city glow. "You're not."
The wind catches a strand of her hair, blowing it across her face. Before I can think better of it, I reach out, tucking it behind her ear. Her breath catches.
"What are you doing, Carter?"
"I have no idea." It's the most honest thing I've said all night.
She doesn't step back. "This is a bad idea."
"Probably."
"I'm a journalist."
"I'm aware."
"I write about men like you."
I move closer. "Men like me?"
"Arrogant. Reckless. Self-destructive." Her voice has lost its edge, gone softer.
"Is that what you see when you look at me?"
Something flickers in her eyes. "I see someone playing a part."
That hits too close. Nobody sees through the act. Nobody's supposed to.
"And what part am I playing?" I ask, voice rougher than intended.
She studies me, and I feel exposed in a way that has nothing to do with physical nakedness. "I haven't figured that out yet."
The city noise fades. The party disappears. It's just us, standing too close, breathing the same air.
I should walk away. I should end this before it begins. But I can't.
Her lips part slightly. Her gaze drops to my mouth, then back to my eyes. The question is there, unspoken.
I lean in.
She doesn't stop me.
Our lips meet, tentative at first—a question, a test. Then something ignites. Her mouth opens under mine, and restraint vanishes like smoke.
One hand finds her waist, pulling her against me. Her fingers curl into my shirt, bunching the fabric. There's nothing soft about this kiss. Nothing polite. It's built on adrenaline, challenge, and fire.
