Page 69 of Mad Rivals
I blow out a breath and sidestep that question for now, though curiosity will eventually get the best of me. Still, even if I ask her, am I prepared to share my number? Likely not. Maybe we won’t need to.
Me:What about you? If you could do whatever you wanted to me, what would it be?
Kennedy:You’ll laugh if I say it.
Me:I promise I won’t.
Kennedy:I’d kiss you.
All the things in the world she could do, and she chooses…kissing?
Me:Kiss me?
Kennedy:You’re a really good kisser. My stomach flips every time you kiss me. And then I’d let you kiss me wherever you want because you’re also very good with your mouth.
My chest tightens at her words. Her stomach flips when I kiss her?
It just makes me want to kiss her more. I want her to feel that exciting flip of her stomach every time she’s in the same room as me.
What the hell is happening to me?
Me:I can’t wait to show you how good.
The door to my balcony opens. “Mind if I join you out here?” Dex asks, interrupting my intense texting conversation with Kennedy.
“Do I have a choice?” I joke.
He chuckles, and he sitsbesideme, not across from me, so I can’t even text her without him looking over my shoulder.
My phone dings with another text, but I don’t look to answer it. Instead, I make small talk with my brother while I wait for the moment when I can pick up my conversation with the woman I seem to be falling for hard and fast.
CHAPTER 27: Madden Bradley
Clay Mack and Mad Brad
Kennedy is flying out Thursday after work, so I have an entire twenty-four hours in San Diego by myself. I text Clay, and he invites me to his gym so we can work out together on Thursday morning as we continue getting to know each other. He tells me he likes to swim as part of his workout, so I throw swim trunks into my gym bag at the last minute.
He’s waiting for me by the entrance when I walk in, and he slaps me on the back before we hit the weight room first. He spots me, and I spot him. We shoot the shit about life in San Diego, but it’s all surface shit.
He seems like someone I can talk to about Kennedy, but I’m not sure how to bring her up. While my immediate family is the worst choice to make my confessions, he might be someone who can help me put things in perspective.
We run on the treadmills and work up a sweat, and I peel off my shirt and hang it over one arm of the machine as I scale back my speed to start cooling down.
He glances over at me after he slows, too, and he says, “You seeinganybody?”
“Who’s asking?”
“Me. Wondering who left those scratch marks all over your back.”
“Unfortunate run-in with a tree branch,” I lie.
“They look more like fingernail scratches, but if you say so.”
“My cat,” I lie again.
He laughs and holds up both hands. “Like I’d believe you have a cat. You don’t have to make shit up.”
“It’s this woman back in Chicago. It’s just the worst possible timing, you know?”
