Page 62 of Face Off
“What do you mean?” I ask, confused.
“Here I’ve been, thinking you only care about yourself. Turns out, you’re a nice guy.”
“That makes you mad, doesn’t it, Red?”
“Downright furious.” Emerson tucks the Lemieux jersey back where it belongs and moves to the balcony doors, throwing them open. “And I hate these views.”
“So do I. They’re the worst.” I follow her and lean my arms over the metal railing. “You see the Washington Monument over there?”
“Yeah. It’s beautiful at night. I still need to do all the touristy things in town. Museums, monuments. There’s so much to see.”
“I’ll go with you. If you want some company,” I volunteer.
“That would require spending more time with you.” She turns to face me, and her attention hangs on my necklace before she stares past my shoulder. “And that sounds revolting.”
“You’re surviving just fine right now.”
“Because I can escape whenever I want.” She rubs her hands up her arms and shivers at the cold breeze that whips through the air. I pull off my hoodie and toss it to her. “What am I supposed to do with this?”
I laugh. “Normal people would put it on and warm themselves up.”
She tosses it back to me and shivers again. “No, thank you.”
Stubborn fucking woman.
I love that she doesn’t give into me like everyone else does.
“What’s your favorite food?” I ask.
“Is that your question of the day?”
“Yup. I figured I’d spend the first fifty questions asking you all the boring shit, then we’ll get to the good stuff.”
Emerson blows out a breath, and I lay the hoodie between us. An invitation to take it, if she wants, because I really can’t stand to see the goosebumps on her skin.
“Potatoes,” she says around an exhale that sounds tired and heavy. “Mashed. Scalloped.”
“Makes sense why the alien babies are half potato. How do you feel about twice baked?”
“My least favorite, but I wouldn’t say no.”
“You’re a carb girl.”
“I’m an athlete.” Her fingers inch toward the sweatshirt before she pulls her hand back and taps her nails against the railing. “What about you?”
“Pasta. Lasagna, specifically. Had it once a week as a kid, and I never got sick of it.” I smile into the night and glance at her. “Don’t tell any of the guys I have some hidden in my fridge. I’m going to warm it up when they all settle down.”
“Speaking of, I think I’m going to head in and grab some food.”
“Too cold out here for you?”
“No.” She shoots me a look and turns for the door. Her skirt spins with her and I get a glimpse of creamy thighs. The curve of her quad muscles and smooth skin. “I’m hungry.”
“Avoid the charcuterie boards—there are strawberries on them. I’ll make sure there aren’t any next time.”
Emerson hesitates. “What are you talking about?”
“Strawberries?” I repeat. “The fruit? You’re allergic, right? The flight to Milwaukee tomorrow would suck if your eyes were all puffy.”
