Page 81 of Face Off
She puts her swoopy signature on a personalized piece of paper and poses for a photo, her tongue out and her eyes closed. She looks so carefree right now with her wind-burned cheeks and the tug of a smile on her mouth, and it makes my chest hurt a little.
I nudge her shoulder after she finishes the paparazzi session. “You want to be on my team?”
“I’m with Grant. It would be dangerous if you and I were throwing at the same target. I might accidentally miss and cut off your hands.”
“I thought you liked my hands,” I say, dropping my voice low so only she can hear me. “At least, that’s what it sounded like the other night.”
Emerson narrows her eyes. “Don’t start with me, Miller. I don’t want to regret anything.”
“You don’t regret it?” I ask.
She pauses and pretends to brush a piece of lint off her sweater. “No. Do you?”
“Hell, no. I had a great time, and from this moment on, I swear to pretend nothing happened.”
“You were supposed to pretend nothing happened days ago.”
“Whoops.” I laugh and take a step back. “Are you busy tonight? Hudson, Riley, Connor and I are heading out to play some pool. Do you want to come?”
She looks me up and down, and I wonder if she’s thinking about the way she tipped her head back and opened her mouth. The drool on her cheek and the hand she slipped between her legs, wanting to touch herself while she sucked me off.
Fuck.
“Want to make things interesting?” Emerson asks.
“You have my attention.”
“If I score more points than you, you give me back my underwear.”
“It’ll be a tragedy to part with them, but I’ll entertain that option. What do I get if I win?”
“I’ll come to the bar with you.”
I stick out my hand. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”
I’ve never heard Emerson laugh so much.
I’m not sure what the hell Grant is saying, but she thinks it’s really funny, obviously.
She doesn’t thinkI’mthat funny, and I wish she did.
“Hey.” Hudson snaps his fingers in my face, and I turn my attention back to our lane. “What is wrong with you? You missed an easy throw.”
Whatiswrong with me?
I’d love to answer that question, but I wouldn’t know where to start.
I don’t know why I’m thinking about red hair and a secret hotel room meetup. Purple lace underwear and the feel of a five-foot-ten woman with curves for days in my arms.
It’s probably because there’s no distance between us. After my usual one-night stands, I can easily erase the memory because I never see them again.
That’s not the case with Emerson.
I’m here and she’s here, and the more I look at her, the more I remember.
That has to be it.
The only logical explanation for why my thoughts are so goddamn off-kilter.
