Page 55 of What If I Hate You
"Is this off the record?" she asks, as if reading my mind.
I laugh, the sound more bitter than I intended. "Would it matter if I said yes?" She flinches like I've slapped her, and immediately I regret the words. "I'm sorry," I say quickly. "That was a dick thing to say."
"No, it's a fair question." She sets down her beer, her expression shuttering. "You don't know if you can trust me with this."
The hurt in her voice makes my chest ache. "That's not what I meant."
"Isn't it?" Her eyes meet mine, direct and unflinching despite their redness. "After all, I'm just a reporter looking for a story, right? That's all I've ever been to you."
"Blakely…" I reach across the space between us, not quite touching her but close enough that she could take my hand if she wanted to. "You know that's not true. Not anymore."
Killer chooses this moment to make a spectacular leap from my lap toward Blakely, landing in an uncoordinated heap against her thigh. She catches him instinctively, and the moment breaks some of the tension crackling between us.
"You're right though," she says, settling Killer back into her arms. "I am a reporter. And if you tell me something, there's always going to be that question of whether I'll use it." She meets my eyes. "But for what it's worth, some things are more important than a story."
"Like what?"
"Like this." She gestures between us, then around the apartment. "Like you trusting me enough to show me who you really are. Like me trusting you enough to fall apart in front of you." Her voice gets quieter. "I've never done that before. Let someone see me break."
Something shifts in my chest, a loosening I didn't even realize I needed. "So, what does that make us?" I ask, the question hanging in the air like smoke.
She's quiet for a long moment, stroking Killer's fur as he purrs against her chest. When she finally speaks, her voice is barely above a whisper. "I don't know. But I know I don't want to go back to pretending I hate you."
"Good," I say, relief flooding through me. "Because I'm tired of pretending too."
She scratches under Killer's chin, and he purrs so loudly it fills the quiet space between us. "So, what happens now?"
The question hangs there, loaded with possibility and danger in equal measure. I could play it safe, make some joke about how she's not allowed to tell anyone about my secret cat. I could retreat back behind my walls and pretend this moment of honesty never happened.
Instead, I lean forward until there's barely a foot of space between us. “One of two things. One, we spend the next several hours talking and getting to know one another because we actually enjoy each other’s company and then I take you home, or I guess, back to the arena to get your car and bid you good night.”
“Or?”
“Or you allow me to do what I’ve been aching to do since I saw you not crying in that bathroom and kiss you.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
BLAKELY
Inever thought I'd find salvation on Barrett Cunningham's kitchen floor, but here I am, seated with his cat in my lap while he awaits my choice. One path leads to safety—talking, getting to know each other, the polite dance of two people circling what they really want.
The other path is almost certainly dangerous fire.
"I think…option two sounds good," I whisper, and the words feel like I’ve just sentenced us both to jumping off a cliff.
Barrett doesn't hesitate. He moves with the same focused intensity he brings to the ice, closing the distance between us in one fluid motion. His hand cups my face, thumb brushing my cheekbone with an unexpected tenderness. For a heartbeat, he just looks at me—really looks—like he's memorizing every detail.
Then his mouth is on mine, and my world narrows to just this. The warm press of his lips, gentle at first, then more insistent. I feel Killer squirm away from my lap, scampering off to who knows where, because I can't focus on anything except Barrett. His mouth moves against mine with a hunger that makes my skin burn, and I'm kissing him back with equal fervor.
This isn't the frantic, angry collision we shared in the arena hallway. This is something else entirely. It’s deliberate,searching, almost reverent. His hands slide into my hair, cradling my head like I'm something precious, and I melt against him, my fingers clutching at his shirt.
"Bear," I breathe against his lips, his name a prayer and a plea rolled into one.
He makes a noise—half growl, half groan—that vibrates through my entire body. The sound breaks something loose inside me, and suddenly he’s lifting me, pulling me across his lap until I’m straddling him, his back against the kitchen cabinets. His hands slide around to grip my hips, fingers digging in just enough to make me gasp. My thighs tighten around him as I sink farther into his lap, the cold tile of his kitchen floor barely registering against my knees. He tastes like beer and something uniquely him, something I've been craving since that stolen intimate moment between us.
"Jesus, Blakely," he murmurs against my mouth, his voice ragged. "You have no idea how long I've wanted this."
I pull back just enough to look at him, my hands framing his face. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide with desire, but there's something else there too. A vulnerability that makes my chest ache.
