Page 7 of The Break Down

I want to walk over there and tell her to cover the hell up.

But more than that?

More than the anger and the heat and the annoyance?

I want to taste her.

Top to bottom.

Press her to the ground right here in the middle of this perfectly manicured field and find out if that mouth of hers is as smart with kisses as it is with comebacks.

I haven’t felt this out of control in years. Maybe ever.

She’s not even trying.

That’s what makes it worse.

Because every time she’s around, I feel like I’m unraveling. Like I’m seconds from doing something stupid.

Like kissing her, or yelling at her, or dragging her off into the nearest closet and finally giving in to whatever this madness is between us.

And that’s exactly why I don’t see the ball flying through the air until it’s too late.

Thwack.

Clean hit. Right off the side of my skull.

“Fuck!” I bellow, stumbling a step.

Laughter erupts from the team, Coach yelling something about keeping my head in the game, and Tank is cackling like a hyena.

And Finley?

She’s laughing too.

Trying to hide it behind her camera, but I see the way her emerald eyes sparkle.

And God help me, even with my head ringing, all I want to do is kiss that smirk off her face.

CHAPTER THREE-FINLEY

Okay, so. It’s sunny. And it’s hot.

I’m talkingsweat pooling in places no one talks aboutkind of hot.

I should’ve worn shorts.

But here’s the thing—when you know damn well you're gonna be crouching and rolling around in the grass trying to get decent footage of a rugby scrum, you plan accordingly.

And this fluffy girl doesn’t do knees-out in the dirt without a bit of coverage.

Hence, capris.

So yeah, after a few hours, I’m a hot mess. And not in the sexy way some girlies can pull off.

I’m talking hot as in sticky and icky.

My tank top is clinging to me like a needy ex, and my hair’s scraped into a messy bun that’s lessPinterest cuteand more survival mode.

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