Page 41 of The Pucker and the Princess
Casting back over my relationship history, I search for someone—anyone—who’s done the same, but I come up empty. Since I got drafted and called up to the pros, all the women I’ve spent time with have expected random gifts from me, but I can’t think of a single one who reciprocated. Apparently sleeping with me and giving me blowjobs was supposed to be enough.
And at first, I was okay with it. Kinda.
Except I’ve always wanted a real relationship. Something where we give equal effort. A partner.
That’s apparently harder to find than I grew up believing, though.
“Dozer?” comes Marissa’s voice from the couch. I glance up to see her craning around to look at me, concern creasing her forehead. “Everything okay?” I realize I’ve been staring at the bottle opener in my hand for way too long, and I flash her a smile.
“Yeah. Sorry. Just figuring out why this thing is sticky.” It’s not sticky at all, but I make a show of running it under the faucet and drying it off.
She chuckles. “Been having wild parties up here without me?”
“Ha. Something like that.” If bysomething like thatI mean nothing like that at all. Crossing the space to the couch, I present the bottle opener to her with a flourish. “Your beverage key, my lady.”
She tries to stifle a laugh, and it comes out almost like a snort, which cracks me up. She’s so cute, even when she’s trying not to be. “My beverage key?” she wheezes.
Flopping onto the couch next to her, I offer a shrug and a lopsided smile. “I mean, kinda? If the top is like a lock, this is what opens it.” I gesture at the bottle opener in her hand. “Like you use a key to unlock something.”
Her head tilts to the side as she turns the bottle opener over in her hand, then she shrugs and deftly uses it to open her beer bottle, taking a pull as she leans forward to deposit the now-bent lid on the coffee table. She waggles the bottle opener at me. “You need it?”
“Since you’ll mock me for being uncivilized if I don’t use it, yeah.” She giggles as she hands me the opener, and I open my own beer, holding it out to clink against hers.
“What are we toasting?” she asks, hesitating.
“To being home. To relaxing. To good company and a good movie.”
She clinks her bottle against mine. “I’ll drink to that.”
I wait for her to settle into the couch, placing the bowl of popcorn between us so we can both reach it easily before starting the movie.
About halfway through the movie, the popcorn’s gone, only a few cookies are left, we’ve each had two beers, and Marissa’s lying down, her feet in my lap, my hand resting comfortably on her shin.
At one point she jiggles her leg, sitting up to scratch right by where my hand is. When I give her a quizzical look, she offers an apologetic smile. “You were tickling me.”
“I was?” I frown at my hand, wondering how that’s possible.
“Yeah. Your thumb was moving back and forth, but it’s so light through my pants that it tickled.”
“Oh, uh—” I jerk my hand away from her leg. “Sorry about that.”
She waves me off, adjusting her position, sitting up and tucking her legs around on her other side. “No need to apologize. I know you weren’t doing it on purpose.”
Not only that, I didn’t even realize I was caressing her leg with my thumb. And now she’s unwilling to even have her legs near me. I’m doing my best not to telegraph my embarrassment, though, because she’s acting like it’s not a big deal. Like her decision to adjust position is more for her own comfort than because my hand on her leg bothered her. God, I hope she doesn’t think I’m a creeper now. That’s the last thing I want.
I glance at her, lingering on the delicate curves of her nose, cheeks, and lips.
She seems to feel my eyes on her because she looks at me, meeting my eyes, one of her eyebrows gently lifting in question.
I only offer a smile in response, tearing my gaze from her and refocusing on the TV. It’s at the part where the captain reintroduces himself as playing for the United States instead of his regular team, and I don’t want her to miss it.
I don’t want her to miss any of the things she wants to experience, whether it’s with me, or if it’s with someone like Bouchard. She deserves that. She deserves someone who canmake her happy. Someone who’s ready to treat her like the amazing woman that she is. And I’m so twisted up, I doubt that someone can be me.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Marissa
After I shift positions,I reach over and grab one more beer, open it up, then turn and offer it questioningly to Dozer.
