Page 76 of What If I Hate You
“Whoa there soldier. Settle down? Aren’t we putting the cart before the horse?”
He cocks his head, watching me with a mischievous look in his eye. “Did we not fuck it out on my kitchen floor before actually starting a relationship? Is that not putting the cart before the horse?”
“Touché,” I say, and then I pull him in for another glorious kiss.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
BARRETT
I’ve checked the clock five times in the last minute.
She’s not late. Not even close. I’m just impatient. Or maybe something worse.
Restless.
On edge.
Pacing my apartment like a dog who knows someone’s coming home with bacon in their pockets.
I crack open a beer and take a sip, trying to act normal. This is just a pizza and beer hangout with the girl I’ve already had my hands all over.
No big deal.
Totally casual.
Except my palms are sweating and my brain is a fucking mess because it’s not just some girl. It’s Blakely fucking Rivers. The woman who hates me one minute and fucks me senseless the next. The woman who listens to me when I’m vulnerable without a hint of judgement and then rips me apart in the press room without a lick of guilt.
She texted me twenty minutes ago.
Blakely: On my way. Craving pepperoni. And chaos.
And I’ve been hard ever since.
Chaos. That’s what she is to me. She walks into a room and my systems just… glitch. One look. One smirk. One of those smartass comments that’s somehow laced with affection now instead of venom, and I’m gone. I’m toast. She’s the perfect amount of unexpected chaos in my life.
Blakely Rivers has me by the balls and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
I adjust the waistband of my sweatpants for the third time because yeah, thinking about her doesthatto me, too. I’m a grown-ass man and I’ve been reduced to some fidgety teenage version of myself, half-hard, just waiting for the sound of her knock on my door.
The pizza’s getting cold, the beer’s going flat, and all I can picture is her on my couch in one of those stupid soft T-shirts she wears, legs curled up under her, laughing at something dumb I say, looking at me like maybe—maybe—this isn’t just a slow-burn disaster waiting to implode.
I run a hand through my hair and drop onto the couch, slouching deep into the cushions. I tell myself to relax. It’s not a date. It’s not serious. Just pizza. Just her mouth wrapped around the neck of a beer bottle and the sight of her licking tomato sauce off her thumb and?—
God. I’m so screwed.
I grab the remote and flip through channels I’m not watching. My knee bounces. I think about texting her again, but that’s stupid. I don’t want to look desperate. I’ve got enough pride not to?—
Knock knock.
I freeze for a beat. And then two…three…
Don’t look desperate.
It’s just pizza.
Then I’m up and across the floor like it’s the final thirty seconds of a tied game and open the door where my carefully constructed composure instantly shatters.
Blakely stands there wearing her team hoodie. The same one I left her during practice today with my last name emblazoned across the back. The coordinating sweatpants sit low on her hips, and her hair is pulled back in one of those cute messy buns women like to wear. A few loose strands frame her face and she’s wearing no makeup. I swear to God I’ve never seen someone more beautiful.
