Page 70 of Play With Me
I wait in the other room with my mom, who has a perpetual arch in her eyebrow.
“Don’t look at me like that.”
“He has a black eye. He came all the way here. I hope you give him a chance.”
I run a hand over my face, but she has to know she raised me better than that?
I’m giving him an opportunity, despite what I saw online. Despite what he wanted everyone to believe on that live.
“Don’t worry, you can still feed him tea and ply him with questions.”
My mom rolls her eyes, and a moment later, Colton makes an appearance. He looks timid, shy even, and it makes my chest clench. Goddamn him.
“Thanks for having me, Mrs. Witkoff. Sorry to just show up like this. Looking like a mess.”
“Oh, you look gorgeous,” my mom says, and then bustles over to the stove and pours him a cup of tea. She hands it to him and leads him over to the table, and I sit opposite him, not wanting to get too close because then I’ll want to touch him.
And I can’t touch him. Not until I have an explanation.
His hands cup the mug, and he peers down into it, saying nothing. And my mom is weirdly silent.
I stare at her, and she nods toward the hallway.
She’s the most unsubtle woman on Earth.
“You wanna talk in my room?” I finally ask, and Colton’s shoulders sag in relief.
“Yeah, if that’s okay?”
“Oh, this is a great idea,” my mom says, and then shuffles out of the room. “See you both in the morning.”
She saysbothwith emphasis, making sure that I know she wants him to stay.
Fuck. My mom sometimes, I swear.
Colton follows me down the hallway, and I open my bedroom door for him. He steps inside, looking around before lowering himself onto the edge of the bed.
He’s invading my space in all ways.
He still has the teacup in his hand, but hasn’t had any of it yet. He just stares at the swirling steam coming from the top of it.
“I really am sorry that I just showed up like this. I mean, I did let you know, but I assume you didn’t listen to the voicemails.”
“I did. The first couple, at least.”
“Ah.”
He peers up at me, that black eye dark and swollen.
“Who did that to you?” I ask, reaching out, trying like hell not to touch it, but it’s so fucking hard to resist. The tip of my finger brushes against it, and he winces, but still leans into my touch.
“I don’t fucking know.”
His voice cracks, and a tear slides down his cheek. I stare at it for so long that I think I’m hallucinating. But then another joins it, and I gently take the cup of tea and place it on the bedside table. I pull him into me, our bodies sliding easily together.
“Fuck. I’m sorry. I feel like I’m going crazy,” he whispers, his voice raw and rough.
“What happened?”
