Page 25 of Make the Play

Clink.

I freeze and turn slowly, just enough to see it.

A steaming mug of coffee, sitting right there on the nightstand beside a cold glass of water.

Fuck.

He’s been up and moving around long enough to get coffee. Long enough to think about the details of last night and me still being here, naked in his shower.

“Made you one.” Chase’s voice cuts through the air like silk.

I whip around further, and there he is. Bare chest, sinful gray sweatpants, one hand on the remote as he leans against the counter, watching fucking sports highlights.

He lifts his coffee to his lips, taking a slow, obnoxiously loud sip. “Figured you might need it.”

I do. But I can’t.

If I take the coffee, I’m accepting the intimacy of this entire nightmare. If I take it, I’m admitting this was more than just a drunken, reckless mistake.

I sniff, flipping my hair over one shoulder as I grab my dress and shimmy into it, trying to conceal myself behind my towel as if he didn’t just see me naked and spread out for him in this very hotel room several hours prior.

“You make all your one-night stands coffee, Walton?”

I don’t look at him when I say it. But I hear him shift, feel him watching me, and when he finally answers, his voice is too fucking easy.

“Only the ones who snore.”

Motherfucker.

My head snaps toward him, eyes narrowing as I rush to tie up the straps of my dress. “I do not snore.”

“Sure you don’t, Zo.” He’s casually smiles back at me.

But fine. Good. If this is how we’re playing it, then this is the best-case scenario.

I force a smirk, yanking on my heels. “Well, asfunas this was, I think we can both agree—”

“Oh? We’reagreeingon things now?”

“—this was just a one-time thing,” I finish, forcing my voice into the most uncaring, dismissive tone possible.

For the second time, I can’t make eye contact. Because I know the man beneath the swagger. The one whofeelsmore than he lets on, who shows up every single time his friends need him. The one who carries a weight he won’t speak of, making him lean into the destructiveness. The one who shrugs off every insult and every assumption like he doesn’t care—except I know he does.

That’s why I hate myself so much for caving, for letting him be nothing more than a reckless mistake. And this is exactly why I have to leave. Because if I stay, if Iletthis be something, I’ll ruin both of us. I can’t do that, not with him. Not with someone who means something to me.

Turning to the mirror, I focus back on my dress straps.Tie them, then get out.But they keep slipping through my trembling fingers. I mutter a curse as I fumble with the stupid delicate ribbons, frustrated even this damn dress appears to be conspiring against me.

Then I feel the warmth again. Then his scent, clean and familiar and fucking dangerous, hits me a second before his hands brush against mine.

“Here,” he says quietly, and I freeze.

His fingers are gentle, tugging the straps from my hands, his knuckles skimming my bare shoulder as he ties them for me. A slow, careful knot. Then another. I barely breathe as he finishes the last loop. Fingertips linger at the base of my neck for just a second. Just long enough to make my stomach lurch, to make me want to lean back.

I stare at us in the mirror, hating and loving our reflection in the same breath—his huge hands dusting my shoulder, my skin tone against his.

His stormy blue eyes meet mine in the glass, and my stomach plummets because I see it. A hesitation. A question. A crack in the armor he wears so well.

I have to get out of here. If I stay, I’ll fall. That’s what it feels like. Like I’m standing on the edge of a cliff, watching the ground erode under my feet. And if I fall, I won’t stop.

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