Page 15 of The Hearts We Fumble
By the time I spot her again, she’s weaving through the crowd toward me, a red Solo cup in each hand, a smug grin spreading across her face.
I take the drink from her, lifting an eyebrow at Zane. “Only because I haven’t ruled out my escape plan yet.”
His lips twitch, amusement flickering in his eyes.
God, I hate this.
Hate how much this feels like old times—the ease, the rhythm, the way we fall into this push and pull like no time has passed at all.
It’s almost painful.
I tip the cup back and down my beer in one drink, fully prepared to use it as an excuse to leave—to put space between us before this conversation goes somewhere I don’t want it to.
Zane watches me, his gaze sharp and unreadable.
“So what’s worse? Putting up with me or admitting you’re enjoying yourself?”
I exhale slowly, rolling the empty cup between my fingers and giving myself a second to think.
“Tough call. I think I need another drink before I can give you an honest answer.”
Zane catches on immediately, turning toward the keg with that infuriating smirk like he’s daring me to run from him.
“I’ll take it as you’re having fun, but you’re too stubborn to admit it.”
I roll my eyes, lifting my cup like a toast before looking back at him.
“Take it however helps you sleep at night, Kinnick.”
Pushing past him, I let my shoulder brush his but he barely moves—solid as ever, like he expected it.
His teasing tone is threaded with something heavier.
“Careful. You sure you want to play this game with me, firecracker?”
I freeze. My fingers tighten around the empty cup, grip just a little too firm. It’s been years since he called me that nickname. Since the last time we were anything other than this.
The pause is small—barely noticeable—but he catches it.
I know he does.
Still, I force a smirk, tilting my head just enough to meet his gaze over my shoulder.
“Pretty sure I lost the second you started talking.”
Then I turn and walk away, pretending my pulse isn’t hammering in my throat. Pretending it didn’t affect me at all.
Tate catches up beside me, slightly breathless. “What the heck was that about?”
I blink, feigning innocence. “What?”
She gives me an unimpressed look. “Don’t ‘what’ me. Whatever that was between you and Zane.”
I wave her off, taking a slow sip of my drink. “Oh, you mean the usual? He talks, I tolerate it, and somehow, we both survive?”
Tate scoffs. “Right. Because normal ‘tolerating’ includes the kind of eye contact that could melt steel.”
I roll my eyes, forcing out a laugh that doesn’t quite reach my chest. “Please. If I wanted to leave scorch marks, he’d feel it by now.”
