Page 38 of Play the Last Track
“It’s a beautiful night.”
“It’s freezing.”
“Yes, but look at the sky. No cloud cover. If we were in the country, we’d be able to see stars on a night like tonight.”
I look up. He’s right. There are no clouds tonight. The moon shines so brightly, and it mixes with the street lamps and the lightspouring out of people’s windows. Flynn doesn’t live far from Ivy and Scott’s place. A few streets, a fifteen-minute walk.
We ended up staying there for dinner and watching another game of football. I still can’t quite understand why they want to play it, train for it, live football day in and day out, and then even on a break, they’re still obsessed with watching it. But, they do. Even Ivy was getting into the Sunday night game that we watched between Texas and California, Scott’s former team. Unlike him, Flynn was drafted to Boston. He’s never played anywhere else, if you don’t count college.
Because we stayed, I drank more than I should have. Ivy just kept filling my glass, and she kept supplying beer to Flynn. By the end of the night, we both had too much to drive. So here we are, walking.
Flynn’s brownstone comes into view when we round a corner and turn into his street.
“Oh, thank god.” I pick up my pace, leaving Flynn behind. I reach the front door and turn to wait for him. He smirks at me as he climbs the front steps.
“You didn’t bring your keys?”
“I forgot. You whisked me out the door, and I just … I don’t know, turned my brain off.”
He hums in response and leans around me to unlock the door, pushing it open for me to walk through first.
I sit on the bench and toe off my shoes, throwing them onto the pile that sits by the door. Most are Flynn’s, but mine are slowly starting to join them. I’m starting to pick up his habit of taking my shoes off as soon as I come through the door.
I hear him tut as I walk down the hallway, and I glance over my shoulder. Flynn is bent down, neatly lining up the shoes I just took off next to the other pairs. I smile and head for the kitchen.
“Do you want another drink?” I call out to him.
“Are you having another?”
“Yeah.” I pull out two beers, but only crack one of them open. “I got called in for a sub day tomorrow, but why the hell not?”
Flynn makes it down the hall, hand ruffling through his hair. “Why not? I’m already halfway drunk, may as well finish off the job.”
“That’s the spirit,” I say, popping the lid on the beer and holding it up to him. He leans over the kitchen island and takes it from my hand. Bringing it to his lips. I’m mesmerized by the way his throat works as he takes a sip. I take a sip of my own, trying to use the alcohol to soothe the newly ignited flames in my veins.
It could be the alcohol talking, but staring at him drinking a beer, completely relaxed in his own home, is probably the hottest thing I’ve seen him do. He’s removed the flannel he wore today, and the T-shirt underneath stretches tightly over his muscles. When he slowly lowers the bottle, catching my eye, I feel myself go bright red. Damn it.
I head for the couch, planning to bury myself in the corner of it and wait for the embarrassment of being caught staring at him so intensely to fade. But, of course, Flynn follows me.
“So, what did Ivy decide?”
“About?”
“The date. For the wedding.” He takes the seat across from me, in the other corner of the large C-sectional lounge.
“Oh. February. After the season is over.”
He nods, taking another swig of his beer. “Good for them.”
Silence fills the air, and I feel like I can taste my nerves. The last time I was drunk and in Flynn Reed’s presence, I ended up in his bed. It was the best night of my life, but I suppress the memories.I only ever let myself think about that night if I’m desperate and need a release. Otherwise, they are on lockdown. I don’t want to see him that way.
He’s my roommate. My friend’s friend. My fake boyfriend.
Our relationship is practically a business deal, an exchange of goods. If I think about that night, especially when I’m drunk and have the loosest lips on earth, I will say something stupid.
“Do you ever want to get married?” Yep. Stupid things like that. I resist the urge to smack a hand against my mouth. I need to work on my drunk filter. Badly.
“Yeah. One day,” he replies. He eyes me closely, and I can feel his gaze on me. It heats up my skin.
