Page 24 of The Beautiful Collision
“Ouch.” I press a hand to my chest. “My fragile ego.”
“Nothing fragile about you.” She glances at my chest, then heads to her room.
Physics becomes my enemy as those shorts wage war on ass coverage with each step. If it’s twenty-seven steps from the front door to my room, then the five she takes from my bedroom door to hers feels like the sexiest damn thing I’ve ever seen. Then her door clicks shut with a finality that feels like punctuation.
I’m left breathing like I’ve run suicides, skin electric, air still drugged with her scent. My exhaustion has been burned away like a spark to a room full of gunpowder, and my cock shows definite investment in recent events, which is just spectacular considering I share a wall with the cause.
I grab the accusatory plate and head to the kitchen, where her laptop hibernates but her presence persists—a half-drained mug of tea positioned with mathematical precision, three highlighters arranged neatly, and a nursing textbook splayed open to whatever page she was on.
The setup screamsdo not disturb.
So naturally, I disturb, because I’m living with someone who treats passive aggression like a competitive sport. She keeps score, and I’m losing, which is unacceptable. Because if there’sone thing Maine Hamilton doesn’t do, it’s lose gracefully, and if there’s one thing hedoesdo, it’s raise the stakes constantly.
It’s just a nudge. Nothing catastrophic, nothing that will disrupt her study or ruin her notes, because I’m not a complete asshole. But I do take great glee in swapping the lid of the green highlighter with the orange one, then rotating them just enough to break her perfect parallel arrangement.
And when I flip her bookmark three chapters ahead?
The petty satisfaction tastes better than a game-winning goal.
That done, I slap the plate into the cupboard, a smile on my face, replaying that look. That splinter of time when her control slipped and I glimpsed… what? The same inconvenient want that’s been eating through my walls since she invaded my space?
The possibility sits in my gut.
Because here’s the spectacular joke: I’m shackled. Her rent money is my life support. And if this gets complicated beyond passive-aggressive back-and-forth… Hell,whenthis gets complicated, because that look promised complications with compound interest, I can’t execute my usual exit strategy and ghost her.
I’m financially handcuffed to a woman who just made me forget my name with two seconds of unguarded attention.
But there’s more to her than that. I see the exhaustion she tries to hide, the fear she’s feeling since her parents cut her off (she hasn’t told me that, but Mike did…), and the unguarded moments that are cracks in her party girl, wild stallion facade.
And each crack in her perfection only makes her more compelling.
But that’s the problem. She isn’t just a roommate or a means to an end. She’s a force that has completely disrupted my equilibrium, and I have no idea how to get it back. And thescariest part is how much I want to see that hungry look from her again.
And how much I want to be the reason her control fractures.
eight
MAINE
“HOLY FUCK, KELLERMAN!”
My voice cracks across the driving range as Kellerman’s driver carves through empty air—not even close to striking the golf ball—and the momentum spins him backward three stumbling steps until he nearly face-plants into the rubber mat.
Perfect. This is what I live for.
The guys explode. Even in this piss-yellow sodium light that makes everyone look half-dead, I can see Kellerman’s frown. But then he’s grinning too, because this is our ecosystem—I’m the apex predator who turns everyone else’s failures into entertainment.
“Were you aiming for the ball or trying to helicopter yourself back to campus?” I shoulder past Cooper, who’s been dissecting his grip with the intensity he usually reserves for molecular bonds. “Step aside, children. Let me show you how it’s done.”
The driver settles into my hands. Worn grip tape rough against my palms, the weight of it real and solid. It’s nothing like the pressure that’s been crushing my chest for three weeks. Bills, money, the lingering presence of Maya and our back-and-forth war of passive aggression, and—fucking hell—theattraction.
But here? Under these lights?
I’m myself again.
I’m not much of a golfer, but I’m better than these other hacks, and my body makes sure to cash the check that my ego wrote. I murder the ball, and the crack echoes across the range, pure sex in audio form. I track its flight against the black sky until it vanishes somewhere past the 250-yard marker.
“Two-forty, easy.” I turn away, club on my shoulder.
