Page 24 of Play the Last Track
“I’ve had it for years.” Please don’t be her ex-boyfriend’s. Please, please. Anyone other than him. “It was my dad’s. I stole it after college when I moved into our—I mean,myown place.”
Thank fuck.
I take a step, and then another. My stomach is mere inches from her knee. My fingers flex by my sides, itching to touch her, before they finally settle beside her instead. I press my palms into the countertop to stop myself from losing all control and sliding them up her thighs and under that fucking shirt.
I lean in. “Let’s be friends, Katie.”
She stares at me, mouth parted slightly and breathing shallow. “No.
“That word coming from your mouth is starting to turn me on.” My thumb slides further from my palm, reaching out to brush her thigh. “Come on. You’re living here. We’re going to be playing pretend lovers. The least we can do is be friends.” I glance down at her lips. “Please.”
There is a moment, in the quiet of the kitchen, the dim light illuminating the two of us, where I swear to fucking god, Katie leans in. She shifts in her spot, her eyes tracing over the features of my face and down toward my mouth. I stare, wrapped in her expression as she studies me. Then she does it again, she leans in.
She brings the spoon back to her mouth. The scoop of ice cream on top passes between her pink lips, disappearing as she closes her mouth around the spoon. In slow motion, she draws it from her mouth, clean of the ice cream. Her tongue licks her lower lip, and she smiles.
It’s the same, satisfied smile she gave me after I made her come.
“I love it when you beg,” she whispers. Then, she hops off the counter, her chest brushing against mine as she replaces the lid on the container, then the ice cream into the freezer.
She doesn’t say another word, simply shuts the fridge door and disappears down the corridor toward the stairs.
She leaves me there, standing frozen in the wake of her words and the image of her lips wrapped around the spoon, my cock as hard as a rock.
Chapter Seven
Katie
“Youcan’twearthat,”Ivy says, staring at me with a wild look in her eye as she pulls on her jacket.
I look down at my outfit. Black jeans, black boots, and my favorite oversized hoodie. “Why not? It’s cold out.”
“You have to wear something with Flynn’s number on it, obviously.” Ivy tuts and pulls out her phone. “You aren’t even trying to look like his girlfriend.”
“You’re not wearing Scott’s number,” I mutter under my breath. Ivy simply looks up at me and smiles. She turns, showing me the back of her jacket where a giant navy blue and white eighteen is stitched into the back.
“And I have this.” She holds up her left hand, flashing the engagement ring sitting delicately on her finger. Then she puts all but her middle finger down.
I laugh. “Someone’s sassy today.” I tug uncomfortably at the sleeves of my hoodie.
“I’m so excited to have you at the game,” Ivy says, bouncing on her toes around me. “I hate going alone.”
“You’ve been doing well.” I take her hand in mine and squeeze. “Pops would be really proud of you, Ives.”
Ivy goes quiet, sinking back onto her feet, and I see her take a deep breath. Her eyes well with tears, but she blinks them away before they can fall. “I hope so.”
Silence falls around us as we stand in the entryway of Flynn’s brownstone. The dark walls are illuminated by the lights lining the hall, showcasing the records he has displayed. Over the past two weeks, the house has grown more and more familiar. Whoever decorated for Flynn did an incredible job. It’s warm and cozy, and feels like a home. Even with too many bedrooms for just one person. It’s veryhim.
Flynn Reed is different at home.
He’s comfortable. Grounded.
A few nights ago, he came home just as I was coming down the stairs after a shower. The plan had been to curl up on the couch and watch the newest episode ofLove It Or List It. Instead, I stopped in my tracks when a key in the lock turned and the front door pushed open. I watched him cross over the threshold, and his whole body relaxed. Like he was a different person between these walls. It fascinated and annoyed me, both at the same time.
“The driver is waiting, but if you want to change, he can wait,” Ivy says gently.
I glance at myself in the hallway mirror. Damn it. Ivy is right. I look like I’m going to work. I always look like this these days.
Before Grant, I used to love fashion. Clothes, hats, handbags. I was obsessed with putting together the perfect outfit. I was a color enthusiast and never, ever afraid of a pattern. I collected items from thrift stores, loving their one-of-a-kind pieces. In my eight a.m. classes in college, other students would turn up in their pajamas while I looked as if I was about to walk a runway. It was my thing.
