Page 45 of Play the Last Track
“You don’t look at her like a friend.”
“What?” I replied, too busy trying to find where the girls were sitting. They’d opted for seats on the barrier rather than the box, even though it was freezing.
“You and Katie. You don’t look at her like a friend. You don’t act like her friend either.” I didn’t have an answer for him, so I shrugged, and he dropped the subject.
He is right, though.
I don’t look at her like a friend because every time I look at her, I’m thinking about kissing her. About having her in my bed again. Every time she’s close, I come up with an excuse to touch her. I tease her. I want to get under her skin like she’s under mine.
My thoughts and my actions are definitely notfriendly,but I’m getting really good at pretending.
“Something smells amazing,” Katie says as she appears in my open living and kitchen area. The fire is going, and I decided to forgo the takeout this evening, opting to cook her my infamous vodka pasta that I learned from a TikTok video last year. What? I enjoy a doom scroll as much as the next guy.
“I’m making pasta for dinner if you’re keen for some.” I fold the cooked pasta through the sauce, generously covering it. I take the chicken breasts from the oven and place them in a bowl, using forks to gently pull them apart.
“Where did you learn to cook? I thought your culinary skills began and ended with ordering takeout every night for dinner.” She leans over the kitchen counter as she watches me.
I laugh, tapping the fork against the edge of the bowl before turning around to the stove so I can pour the chicken into the sauce and pasta. I stir it all together and turn off the heat. “I learned in college. Scott and I moved out of the dorms after freshman year and lived in an apartment on campus. If we didn’t learn how to cook, we didn’t eat.”
“Your college team didn’t have chefs?” she asks as I dish up the food.
I nod. “But not living on campus meant that we didn’t always stay at the stadium for meals or go early enough to grab breakfast before training. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but Scott’s a bit of a loner. He was the exact same in college.”
“And you aren’t the same?”
“I like to think that I’ve grown up.”
She hums, pulling the bowl toward her. “Bet you were a party boy,” she says, smiling at me like she has me pinned.
“I had my fun in college, but I was a division one athlete. I couldn’t have too much fun. I was there to play football, so that’s what I did.”
“So, you and Scott played for the same college?”
I nod, watching her face melt as she takes a bite of the pasta gathered on her fork. “I was actually a QB in high school. But when I got to college and was in training camp, competing against Scott, it was obvious he was the better man for it. So I shifted. I wanted to be on the field, and it turns out I’m not half bad at catching a ball.”
“Mm.” She nods, her mouth full. I smile as I watch her swallow and her eyes roll into the back of her head. “Fuck, that’s really good.”
My chest almost explodes at her praise, and I lock down my smug smile. I tuck into my bowl of pasta, sneaking glances at her every now and then. Katie scrolls on her phone while she eats, looking through playlist after playlist as she adds songs she finds to another playlist. I want to lean over for a better look at her screen, but I don’t. That would be a breach of her privacy, and I’m trying to get on her good side. Besides, I would never do that to her, even if she has me curious.
Something vibrates against the benchtop, and I glance up, my gaze zeroing in on Katie’s phone. My stomach drops, and all the joy I felt only moments ago, watching her devour something I made her, completely fades.
Grant.
Fucking Grant.
Ex-boyfriend Grant.
I hold in a groan as I watch her eye the phone. She doesn’t stop it; she doesn’t send him immediately to voicemail. She just lets it ring out.
“You don’t need to take that?” I say, my words coming out with more bite than I intend.
Katie glances up at me. “No.”
“You sure?” The phone vibrates again, and we both stare at it.
Even though she doesn’t make a move to pick up the call, or even text the guy after it goes to voicemail, red-hot jealousy surges through me. Why the fuck is he calling her? Twice in a row, too. How often does he call? Does she ever actually pick up? Or is she just not picking up because I’m sitting right across from her and she doesn’t want to take it in front of me? Does she want to talk to the douchebag?
Fuck. I want to ask her to answer all of my questions. I want to demand to know what’s going on, but I resist. I’m trying to be a gentleman, to be respectful, so I can’t demand to know these things when it isn’t my place.
