Page 5 of Make the Play

I blink, then laugh. Loud. “I’d tell you you’re full of shit.”

“Pretty please?”

“What doIget out of it?”

He leans in. “An excuse to touch me in public.”

I snort, shaking my head. “Jesus Christ, Walton.”

“One day, you’re gonna look back and regret turning down greatness.” He sighs, setting his beer down with a slow shake of his head.

I roll my eyes and take another sip of my drink, refusing to dignify that with an answer. I expect him to keep pushing, but instead, his gaze lingers.

And the thing is, IknowChase Walton.

I know the way he flirts because it’s easier than asking for something real. I know the way he laughs things off because he doesn’t trust himself to take things seriously. I know the way he’s spent years treating me like a game he hasn’t figured out how to win yet.

And despite my better judgment—and my frequently voiced protests—I don’t always hate his company. I’d never tell him this, but sometimes I even enjoy it. The banter and the challenge. The way he never lets me disappear into the background.

Sighing, I tap my fingers against the stem of my glass before setting it down. Chase watches, beer forgotten, his eyes tracking every small movement.

I slide off the stool, smoothing the satin of my dress. Before I can second-guess myself, I grab his tie and give it a sharp tug, pulling him close enough to throw him off balance.

Stumbling forward, his palms catch at my waist, and his fingers flex like he’s not sure whether to steady me or pull me closer. I try to ignore the heat of his hands through the fabric, the way it seeps into me and lingers.

“Fine,” I murmur. “One dance.”

He’s momentarily startled, expression caught somewhere between shock and utter glee. But then he grins—the slow, wolfish smile of a man who should come with a warning label.

“I knew you couldn’t resist me.”

I roll my eyes, but I don’t let go of his tie.

And just like that, I’ve made a terrible decision.

Chapter two

You’re the most ride-or-die person I know

Chase

One dance.

Like a complete fucking idiot, I follow her.

She drags me onto the dancefloor, her fingers still curled around my tie like she’s leading me into battle, but if she thinks I’m going to put up a fight, she’s wrong.

I’d follow her anywhere, not that she needs to know that.

The second we step into the crowd, the music shifts into something unfairly slow. It’s the kind of song meant for dim lighting and close quarters, so I half expect her to throw her hands up and bail.

Instead, she turns to face me, brows lifting. “Well? You asked for this.”

I grin. “I did. And I regret nothing.”

Her fingers loosen on my tie, trailing down the fabric before she lets go completely, and for some reason, I feel the loss of it like a punch.

She steps into me, and everything suddenly narrows.

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