Page 9 of Home Run

“Isn’t that what you do?”

His arms dropped and he pushed himself to sitting. “What’s that supposed to mean? Why are you looking at me like that?”

I inched away. “Because…we don’t need to cuddle.”

“But I want to.” He reached out for me. “Mills, what’s going on?”

“We really don’t have to do this. We’ll just go back to being whatever it was. It’s not like we saw each other that much anyway.”

“Millie?”

I spotted my panties over near the door, along with my tank top, and ran to pull them back on. What was I doing? Why was I purposely picking a fight? Beats me. And based on Tanner’s expression, he was equally confused.

I just didn’t want to be on that list.

And I didn’t want to be one of those girls.

Even more so, I didn’t want to cuddle. Cuddling wasn’t something I could handle. I knew where cuddling led, and Tanner Simpson and I were not going down that path.

No way.

“What? We slept together. Isn’t that why you’ve been chasing me? Isn’t sex what this thing has been about the whole time?”

“What thing?”

“This.” I flicked my hand between us. “You and me. Since we met.”

“No, it fucking isn’t,” he snapped, throwing back the sheets and jumping out of bed. I forced myself to look away from his perfect, naked body.

“Oh comeon. You’re Tanner Simpson. Of course, that’s what you wanted.”

He stood there, arms crossed over his chest, his dick still semi-hard. I could almost feel the annoyance roiling off him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You don’t need to pretend you want to stay and we can’t go back to the apartment together now.”

“Why not?”

“It’ll be weird and awkward. Everyone will know.” In truth, it was unlikely anyone would figure it out, they’d probably just figure Tanner was being Tanner.

“Then we stay here. We can watch a movie.”

“No!” I snapped, harder than I meant to. “Let’s just call this what it is.”

“And what is it?”

“A mistake.”

If I’d slapped his face his expression would have held less of a sting, but I’d said it now.

“A mistake, was it?” He tugged his jeans on, followed by his tee, and stopped next to me at the door with his shoes in one hand. “Want me to go, I’m going. But you’rewrong.Something just happened between us, and I’m not talking about sex. You know it, I know it.” His gaze dropped. It wasn’t the gaze that had heated me to my core; no it was assessing, calculating, accusatory. “And you would be more believable if my cum wasn’t dripping down your leg.”

I couldn’t bear the look he shot my way as he marched through the door and slammed it behind him. The one that said I was full of shit.

Picking his sweater up from the floor, I pulled it over my head and slunk back into bed. The clock said four p.m.

Only eight more hours until the worst day ever was over.

THREE

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