Page 23 of Play the Last Track
“What are you doing?” I ask, wiping my hands dry.
She holds up the items in her hands. “What does it look like?”
“It looks like you’re sitting on my benchtop with the fridge door wide open and eating directly from an ice cream container.”
“Correct.”
“Why?”
She simply shrugs. “Couldn’t sleep.”
“Is the bed uncomfortable?”
“No. No way. That bed is like a cloud and, to be honest, I think I want it in the breakup.”
I try not to cringe at the wordbreakup. I also try not to think about why that bothers me so much, or why my first gut reaction is to tell her that there will never be a breakup. I force myself to smirk. “You can have it if you call me your friend.”
“Fine,” she says, eyes lifting to mine as she scoops another bit of ice cream out of the container with her spoon. It hovers in front of her lips as she says, “I’ll buy my own cloud-like mattress.”
Then, she places her lips around the spoon before slowly drawing the ice cream into her mouth.
If my cock wasn’t awake before, it fucking is now.
Jesus fucking Christ.
I look down at my abandoned, over-filled glass and take a deep breath in. I tip some of the water out and lift it to my lips, returning my gaze to Katie, only to find her licking the last remnants of her scoop off her spoon. I gulp down the water.
“Do you always walk around the house in nothing but your underwear?” Her eyes track down my body, and I don’t miss theway they catch on my abs. I fight the urge to run my fingers over the hard ridges, to emphasize the defined lines and solid muscle.
Instead, I keep my mask firmly in place. She wants to play games, then I can play, too. “Yes. Do you always sit on the kitchen bench at home wearing nothing but an oversized T-shirt?”
She looks down at her outfit—a faded blue T-shirt that drowns her. The hem is worn and creeps up her thighs with every single movement. Her smooth legs fall over the edge of the countertop, the bare skin taunting me. She smiles knowingly and crosses her legs before carving out another scoop.
I drain the rest of my glass and place it back into the sink. Then, I move to stand next to the fridge, opposite her. From here, the light illuminates her completely, and I can see every single one of her emotions. All of the ones she gathers up during the day and locks away, thinking no one would care to hear about them. But here, in my kitchen, she’s laying them all out. I wonder silently if she knows that she bears them all to me, or if she’s completely unaware of how far she’s let her guard down.
It could be the wine. Or, it could be the fact that she’s never had to hide from me. Not before, when I was simply her football crush that she accidentally flirted with across a bar, not in Italy with the stars above us and secrets between us, and certainly not that night.
Not when I thought we were starting something I’d almost given up on finding completely.
“Earth to Flynn.” Katie waves the spoon in front of my face, drawing my attention back to her.
“Do you?”
“Do I what?” She drags the spoon over her lower lip.
“Wear that to bed?” I gesture to her outfit once again. Up close, I can tell it’s a man’s shirt.
Irrational jealousy surges through me.
Is that her fucking ex’s shirt?
“This is my favorite shirt. My comfort shirt, if you will,” she explains, like that’s supposed to mean anything to me.
“You mean comfortable?”
“No, I mean comfort.” She stabs the spoon into the remaining ice cream, ensuring it holds itself up in the container, and places it down on the bench. Then, she smooths her hands over the fabric of the shirt, causing it to mold to her body.
My eyes go straight to her hard, pointed nipples, prominent through the fabric. Holy fuck, do I miss seeing those. Her boobs are … well, they’re perfection. No other word for it.
