Page 37 of Don't Say You're Sorry

“His car’s at the bar he took me to. He can find his own way there.”

Fine by me.

Xavi growls and chucks his controller down on his lap when Easton beats him again. That’s four in a row. Xavi hasn’t won against him once.

“I hate this game.”

“You loved it earlier,” Nate reminds him.

“That was when I was winning.”

Easton snickers. When he starts a new game, Xavi hands me the controller. With a feigned, overly dramatic yawn, he stands and stretches his arms, revealing a little strip of pale skin above his waistband. “Nate, take me to bed.”

Nate lowers Xavi’s arms, tugging his shirt down to hide his body from us before he guides him to the door. Xavi winks at me over his shoulder. Nate squeezes the back of his neck, forcing him to keep moving, and I don’t miss the little grin on Xavi’s face before he turns away. “Good night.”

“Good night,” Easton and I say back.

“So subtle,” Easton deadpans once they’re gone.

A laugh bubbles out of me as I rub my temples, trying to hide the pink stains on my cheeks.

“You want another beer?” he asks, standing and picking up the two empty bottles on the end table.

I raise a brow. “Are you trying to get me drunk?”

Smirking, Easton takes that as a yes and heads to the kitchen.

I pull my phone out of my pocket and open the camera app, checking my appearance. My dark hair is too long, falling over my eyes, but since Easton told me he likes it like this, I don’t plan on having it cut anytime soon.

He comes back a moment later, and I quickly shove my phone away. Too late. He already caught me checking myself. Hesmiles at the TV and picks up his controller, getting back to the game.

“Did you call Mick today?” he asks.

I hesitate, unsure how he’s going to react. “Yeah.”

It’s a long, tense moment before he asks, “What did he say?”

“He wants me to go in for an interview tomorrow.”

He nods a few times. “So youdowanna play.”

“I want a job.”

“Sure,” is all he says.

I shift in my seat, my elbow nudging his arm as I try to get comfortable. We play the game in silence—tense, uncomfortable, unbearable silence—until he huffs a laugh and scoots into the corner of the sofa, widening his legs.

“Come here,” he says.

I hesitate, but he’s too impatient for that. Grabbing my arm, he pulls me into him, my back to his chest, and wraps his arms around my middle, his chin resting on my shoulder as he continues to play. I freeze. Holding my breath, I try to hide the way my heart is beating so fast. There’s no way he can’t tell though. I’m sure he can feel the rapid beat of the pulse in my neck against his jaw.

I stop bothering to pretend I’m paying attention to the game and slowly turn my head to face him, my brows pinching at the look on his face.

“What’s that smile for?” I ask.

He shrugs. “I just forgot how fun you are.”

I lift a brow. “To fuck with?”

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