Page 89 of End Game
“Why do you think something is wrong?”
“Well, you’re here, for one. And for two, you look like you’re ready to brawl.”
I shrug because I’m not completely sure. Instead of answering, I watch her grab a plate and fork.
Her legs look toned in a pair of white shorts, her yellow top tight against her chest. Her hair is messy in a half-up, half-down thing and her eyes shine even more golden next to her shirt.
Watching her, I can’t help but acknowledge the tightness in my chest. She’s beautiful and sexy and sweet and sincere. But it’s how she makes me feel that’s crazy.
I don’t want to just undress her and lick every part of her body. I want to kiss her, take my time and adore her. I want to take her to a stupid movie or get her coffee cake in the middle of the night.
But why? What’s the point?
“You gonna offer me a piece?” I ask.
“Maybe.” She shoves a forkful in her mouth. “God, this is so good.”
“I love hearing you say that.”
She rolls her eyes, but cuts me a piece anyway. “Here. That’s all you get.”
“Stingy.”
She smiles and goes back to her cake. I take a bite and look around.
Her apartment is small with white walls and muted, feminine touches. The couch is a simple grey with so many pillows I don’t know how she even sits on it. There are images of beaches andskylines and simple artistic drawings adorning the walls, helping to make them not look so dull.
It’s a one-eighty from my house with its large, barren rooms and black and white canvas. I thought modern and sparse was my jam, but I’m not entirely sure now.
“What do you think?” she asks. “I loved the light in here. That’s why I chose this apartment.”
“It’s nice. It’s what I thought your apartment would look like, actually. Pretty. Tasteful.”
“I hope you thought it would be cleaner,” she laughs. “I hate cleaning. Hate it. I’m not good at domestic crap. Callum used to say . . .” She stops when she sees my reaction. “It doesn’t matter what he used to say.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
“So,” she says in an attempt to change the subject, “want a drink? Pop? Tea? Decaf?”
“Water?” I ask.
“I’ve drank my weight in water today,” she says, swiping a bottle from the refrigerator. “I read that drinking more water keeping swelling down. Does that make any sense to you?”
“The therapist we use at work says the same thing. It seems counterintuitive, but the owner only hires the best, so I’m assuming she knows her shit.”
I take a long, cool drink and use the time to try to settle my nerves. Being in her home feels different than I thought it would. The cabin felt more like neutral ground. This is completely her domain and I wonder what she would look like in my kitchen.
“How was your first week back?” she asks, getting an orange out of the basket beneath the microwave. “Did it feel like home?”
“Yeah, it did. It was good to get out there with the guys.” She tosses me the fruit. “What’s this for?”
“You should eat it. It’s good for muscle fatigue.”
Layla walks by me and heads back into the living room. I follow, unsure if I’m supposed to bring the water and fruit with me or not. I set them on the counter to be safe.
I hate that I don’t know the rules here, that I don’t know all her little idiosyncrasies. As we sit on the sofa, I look around.
“What color do you want to paint the baby’s room?” I ask, thinking back to the conversation I had with Chauncey.
