Page 110 of Red Zone
“Yeah,” he says easily, setting the bag on the counter and glancing over his shoulder at me. “You tell me that a lot, but you seem to like me anyway.”
He’s not wrong.
We sit at the island, the two of us side by side, the paper bag crinkling between us as he pulls out two burgers and a container of fries.
He pushes one wrapped burger toward me, then the fries, and leans back on his stool to unwrap his own like he’s done this here a hundred times.
“Don’t just stare at it,” he says when I hesitate, quirking a brow at me. “You’re not impressing anyone by pretending you’re not hungry.”
I roll my eyes and peel the wrapper back, ignoring the little curl of something warm in my chest when his mouth twitches into a faint smirk.
For a while, it’s quiet, just the sound of the wrappers and the faint noise of the TV in the living room. The burger’s exactly what I didn’t know I needed—warm and salty and grounding somehow—and even though I’m still thinking about Savannah’s words, the ache in my chest softens with every bite.
Carter pops a fry into his mouth and glances sideways at me.
“You’re quiet,” he says finally.
I shrug, wiping my hands on a napkin. “Just a lot on my mind. Work stuff.”
He watches me for a beat, like he wants to push, but just nods like he gets it.
We fall into another stretch of silence, the kind that’s somehow comfortable with him. Every now and then his knee brushes against mine under the island, and each time it sends this stupid, low thrum through me that I try to ignore.
It isn’t until he’s down to the last few fries that he leans back on his stool and asks, almost casually, “When’s Madison getting home?”
I pause mid-bite, blinking at him.
I shake my head faintly, my lips quirking into something small and wry.
“I don’t think she is tonight,” I say, setting my burger down.
His brows lift slightly.
“She texted me earlier,” I add, tearing off a corner of my napkin to give my hands something to do. “Said she’s probably staying at your guys’ place.”
Carter lets out a quiet laugh and shakes his head like he’s not even surprised.
I ball up the wrappers, and Carter grabs the bag, tossing everything in the trash before turning back to me with that little grin of his.
“All right,” he says, leaning against the counter. “You’ve worked enough for one night. Couch. Now.”
I arch a brow at him. “You’re very bossy, you know that?”
He smirks. “And yet, here you are, still listening to me.”
I shake my head but slide off the stool anyway, grabbing my blanket as I pass him. He follows me into the living room like he owns the place, dropping onto the couch beside me and stealing the remote before I can even reach for it.
“What are you—hey!” I protest when he scrolls past the dramas I usually pick.
He ignores me, settling on some ridiculous episode of Baking Wars—overly dramatic music, bakers shouting about soufflés collapsing, sprinkles flying everywhere.
I stare at the screen for a second before sinking back into the cushions with a reluctant laugh.
“Good at football, hot as hell, and he likes to watch baking shows,” I mutter.
“Yeah,” he says lightly, draping his arm over the back of the couch. “All of that and more, Princess. You’re welcome.”
The banter falls away as the show plays on, the warmth of him next to me sinking into my side.
