Page 139 of Trust Me Always

“Some shit my dad makes me and the guys sometimes. No idea what it’s called, but it’s damn good.”

She tips her head, and my gaze follows the long piece of golden hair that slides against her arm, sticking to her in ways I want to.

I’d like to take her hair and?—

“Bring mine to me?” she asks, but it’s the crack in her tone that has my eyes snapping to hers, my breathing getting a little harder.

Probably because I’m holding my breath.

I shuffle closer, handing hers over, and she holds her hand over mine a moment before pulling it away.

“Cheers.” She holds it up; we clink glasses and, at the same time, tip our glasses back.

I finish mine in one go, and she only takes a second swallow, blowing out a long breath as she chuckles. She passes it back and then the curtain is hiding her from me again. “That is good.”

“Guess what my mom made for dinner.”

The curtain yanks back again, this time soapy bubbles clinging to her, and I have to swallow my groan.

She’s killing me and she has no fucking idea.

“Don’t play with me, Lancaster.”

I tug my hoodie over my head, my shirt next, and the rest follows, leaving me in my briefs. Her eyes burn a path down my chest, but before they can travel any lower, I spin on my feet. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Cox.”

Lie.

I would very much like to play with her. Naked.

But that’s a whole other issue in itself, isn’t it, you big fucking fake?

Cameron

I call on my best spying skills and focus on the sound of his footsteps. Only when I can’t hear the slightest trace of him do I finally feel I can breathe, my shoulders falling against the tile walls.

Holy shit, he kissed me when no one was watching.

When no one was there to see.

When it wasn’t for the benefit of someone else.

Does that mean he feels this new pull between us?

I thought I was imagining it, that our versions of Mr. Hyde—the flirty, sexual seeker version—were just becoming better acquainted with each other while the sane, more conscious parts of our selves knew the score.

I’m starting to think my scoreboard is glitching and I’ve missed a touchdown or two because the numbers aren’t matching up.

Does this mean more than I realize or less than I want it to?

What the actual hell do I want it to?

I know what’s going on, and it’s somehow equally as intriguing as it is terrifying. It’s like the musical cue in a major motion picture has started playing, and all you have to do is keep your eyes glued to the screen to see what big moment happens next.

Do we keep driving down the field or spike the ball and end the play?

I don’t know the answer, but what I do know is this is Brady we’re talking about.

If there’s anyone I can trust blindly, it’s him.

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