Page 197 of Red Zone
Her hands.
The way she used to look at me like I was worth more than just the game.
I catch myself glancing at her mouth more than once, my fingers curling into fists at my sides to keep them from reaching out.
Because right here, right now, all I want to do is close the space between us.
Tuck that little strand of hair back behind her ear.
And kiss her until she forgets why she ever told me that we couldn’t be together.
But instead, I just stand here.
Trying to remember what it feels like to breathe.
Her smile turns a little sly, her green eyes glittering as she tips her head just slightly.
“You’re staring, Hayes,” she teases, her voice soft but with a little edge of mischief. “Not very subtle.”
I huff a dry laugh, dragging a hand over the back of my neck.
“Yeah,” I admit, stepping just a little closer. “Guess I’m not.”
The kitchen’s empty now, the noise of the party dulled behind the closed door. Just me and her, standing a few feet apart, pretending we’re still playing by the rules.
But I can’t. Not tonight.
I close the gap, stopping just in front of her. Her breath hitches when I reach up, letting my fingers ghost over the ends of her newly cut hair.
“You have no idea how badly I want to kiss you right now,” I murmur, my voice low and rough.
Her eyes flutter shut, just for a second.
I let my hand fall back to my side and lower my forehead to hers instead, closing my eyes and breathing her in.
“I miss you,” I whisper.
The silence stretches for a beat before I hear her whisper back, her voice so quiet I almost miss it, “Carter…”
It takes everything in me not to tilt her chin up and press my mouth to hers.
Instead, I stay there for just another moment, her breath warm against my lips, before pressing one soft kiss to her forehead.
She closes her eyes, her shoulders sinking, and I step back before I can change my mind.
Without another word, I turn and push through the swinging door, letting the noise of the party swallow me whole.
50
LYLA
The only thing keeping me sane these days is work.
And I’ve thrown myself into it with everything I have.
My planner is a mess of tabs and color-coded notes, and my laptop is constantly open to half a dozen spreadsheets at once. Every night I’m here, sitting cross-legged on my living room floor, cold coffee forgotten on the table while I make calls and draft emails.
It feels good.
