Page 115 of Game Misconduct
Now the place smells like sandalwood-scented candles the girl at the store swore Sloane would love, and I’ve rearranged the living room twice like it’s gonna impress her.
I’m not even trying to get laid tonight, and somehow that makes it worse.
Because this time it’s not about sex.
It’s about her walking through that door and deciding to stay.
I check the time again.
She’s not late. I’m just impatient.
I’m not used to this version of me—the one that gives a damn if the playlist sounds like background noise or if the lighting’s too bright.
I glance at the mirrored backsplash in the kitchen and catchmy reflection. The sleeves of my black henley are shoved up my forearms and my jaw’s a little too tight.
I look like I’m trying not to care.
“Trying” being the operative word because I care way too damn much.
My phone buzzes on the counter.
Sloane: Be down in a few.
I exhale slowly, setting the phone face-down.
She’s really coming.
Even after the board meeting she wouldn’t tell me about yesterday, even after all the ways this could blow up in our faces, she’s still walking into my place.
And not for sex. Just for dinner.
Which feels more dangerous.
I take one last lap through the condo, straighten a throw pillow I didn’t know I had and not sure I like, and stop just as I hear her at the door.
Three knocks. Confident. Measured.
Hers.
When I open the door, my brain short-circuits.
She’s in jeans that hug her legs like a second skin and a green sweater that brings out her eyes and clings in all the right places. Her hair is loose, her makeup soft, and her smile hesitant.
And fuck me, I think I fall a little harder right there.
“Hey,” she says, holding up a bottle of red. “I brought wine.”
“All I care about is that you’re here,” I say, stepping back to let her in.
A pretty pink blush stains her cheeks as she walks past me, and everything about her—the citrus and spice of her perfume, the swish of her hair, the way her eyes sweep the room like she’s memorizing it—makes my pulse tick up.
I shut the door and lean against it for a second, watching her move.
“Didn’t peg you for a candle guy,” she says, arching a brow at the flickering votive on the counter.
“Didn’t peg you for a woman who’d willingly step into a goalie’s condo.”
Her lips twitch. “Touché.”
