Page 52 of Chasing After You
“Not bad for your first game as a starter. Way to go, Price,” she says, smiling happily at me.
“I had to show up and prove you made the right decision agreeing to help me. Maybe next time, I’ll get lucky, and you’ll wear my jersey,” I tease, but I’m not kidding in the slightest. I have the jersey sitting in a bag in my room for her, but I chickened out on giving it to Mirabelle last night. There wasn’t a moment to catch her alone because immediately after JJ’s game finished, Emily and Mirabelle disappeared to the pool with a bottle of wine. The sounds of Mirabelle’s laughter through my window taunted me until they went to her room.
“Maybe,” Mirabelle agrees, taking a drink, and I take the opportunity to check her out. She has these sparkly boots on her feet that she keeps smiling at, and a pair of jeans that are hugging her ass irresistibly. Maybe we should have gone back to the VIP section. There are too many people down here getting to look at her.
Temptation gets the better of me, and I can’t keep my hands to myself. “I don’t think I’d be mad if you showed up to the next game wearing one of these,” I say, slipping my finger under the strap to snap it against her tanned skin.
Her chest hitches in surprise and her lips part as she looks up at me. “A corset?”
“I can’t take my eyes off you,” I say, and if I didn’t know better, I’d say I’m drunk.Drunk words equal sober thoughts, but the only thing I’m drunk on, is Mirabelle.
There’s a tap on my arm interrupting the moment before Mirabelle can respond, and I twist to see a girl from the next table over, gaping at me in awe. “Oh my god. You’re him. You’re Henry Price.”
I blink in surprise, not expecting this when I absolutely should have been. Mirabelle laughs on the other side of me, and I’m glad she’s enjoying this. “Hi, it’s nice to meet you,” I say, finally finding my words.
“I’m so sorry, I promise I never do this, but my boyfriend is obsessed with you. You’re on his fantasy team and everything. He would literally never forgive me if I didn’t ask to take a picture with you. Can you please take a selfie with me?” she asks, looking up at me. Her friends are noticing she’s turned away, and I feel my face flush as they point at me.This is my hell, but I’m willing to try for Mirabelle.
“Sure,” I agree, leaning in as she holds out her phone to take the picture.
“Thank you so much. Seriously, you have no idea how excited he’ll be,” she says, clutching the phone to her chest. I’m just relieved she didn’t ask any questions. This is the kind of stuff I don’t mind, but the shit like my date with Mirabelle, where people feel entitled to put their hands on me while asking if I use steroids, are the reason I normally avoid everyone altogether. You never know what type of person will approach.
“No problem, but I did promise my girlfriend a dance,” I fib, and that’s when she sees Mirabelle behind me.
“No fucking way,” she shrieks, and then all her friends approach.
“Oh my god.”
“I can’t believe I’m in the same bar as Mirabelle Walker. I’m really sorry if we’re bothering you, but holy shit!”
“You’re my idol! I love your outfit.”
Mirabelle looks at me as if asking whether this is okay, but I don’t mind at all. I don’t like the attention, but they’ve been nice.
“I can take a picture of all of you?” I offer, and the amount of screams is an overwhelming response.
Mirabelle poses with them for nearly a dozen pictures as I practice my new career as her personal photographer before she politely tells them we have to go.
Maybe I’ve been looking at all this the wrong way.
I realize after we excuse ourselves that I’ve reached for her hand without realizing it. It feels so natural—everything with her does. “Are you okay? I’m sorry, that was a lot,” she asks, peering up at me, but it wasn’t.
“I didn’t mind, but I do want to dance with you.”
Her eyebrows raise in surprise. “I thought you only said that so she’d go away?”
She’s not wrong, that might be the reason I said it, but I actually want to. “Let’s dance,” I say, pulling her in the direction of the thick crowd of grinding bodies. I stand there awkwardly for a moment, staring at her because I don’t know what to do with my hands, and Mirabelle’s head tips backward as she laughs. She covers her mouth immediately to stifle it, but fails. Her eyes are crinkled, and she looks so damn happy that I’d make a fool of myself any day if it makes Mirabelle laugh.
“What are you laughing at?”
She stands on her tiptoes, her hand resting on my chest for balance. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be laughing, but I can’t imagine you dancing. You’re just . . . you’re not a dancer, Henry.”
Mirabelle absolutely has me there. I’m not a dancer. In fact, I can’t even remember the last time I danced. I smile at her, feeling more like myself than I have in a while. Today feels like a day where anything can happen.
“I’m not a dancer, but I’d like to try anyway with you.”
She grabs my hands, entwining them with hers. “Please don’t step on my feet,” Mirabelle requests, moving my hands to trail down her sides, leaving them on her hips as she moves them in a way that short-circuits my brain.
I pull her against me, touching her as her hands drift up my abdomen, and my restraint threatens to snap as my heart beats quickly in my chest.
