Page 59 of Gorgeous

It feels like I’ve been shot.

My lungs freeze and I can’t breathe.

I stand in the kitchen, frozen and speechless when she puts me on the spot. “Do we have a deal, Major Jameson?”

My brain is fist pumping me and screaming out, “Fuck yeah.” But my gut … my gut and maybe my chest feels like I’m about to puke. I know I ask her every day if I can offer her a ride home, but at this point, it’s more like a running joke. I’ve grown used to her dancing and annoying little quips. Honestly, I look forward to annoying her every morning when I come down for breakfast.

“Do we have a deal, Major?”

Her stare is challenging and I know this is monumental. This bet is her subtle way of seeing if we’ve called a truce and are friends. And really, I think we have. But there’s still that pesky hope in her eyes and I can’t afford to have a clinger.

So I take one for team Jameson.

It’s going to hurt, but it’s for our own good. I don’t need a woman in my life, ever again.

“You have a deal.”

I extend my hand for Breck to shake and I have the awful privilege of watching her face fall with my acceptance. She wanted me to counter.

I failed her, and if that doesn’t make me feel like the biggest piece of shit on the planet then I don’t know what else will.

With a deep breath and a forced smile, Breck takes my hand and shakes it. “We have a deal, then.”

We sure do. And it fucking sucks.

“Suck on that, Major!” she yells, bouncing up and down next to me.

“Touchdown!”

Breck is a beast on the Xbox. A far cry from what I had expected from a girl. Anniston plays with us sometimes but she never wins. But Breck is kicking my fucking ass six ways from Sunday without even trying hard. Someone hustled me.

“Sit down,” I scold her, pulling on her tight as shit shorts. “I can’t see with you jumping around in front of me. Video games were meant to be played sitting down.”

Breck pulls against my hold and remains standing, tossing me a cocky look over her shoulder. “Don’t be a spoilsport, Major.”

Is she serious?

Me? A spoilsport? Eh, maybe. But fuck!

Can her ass not look so fucking edible while she swishes it in front of my face as her guy rushes the next forty? No wonder I’m fucking losing. I’m distracted as hell.

“I’m not being a spoilsport,” I say, pulling her down again. This time she sits on the edge of the couch, next to me, and huffs out a breath. I cock a brow in response to her attitude and she laughs. “I seriously can’t see the TV,” I tell her.

“You seriously are down fourteen points. Your QB has eaten more grass than Killer.”

How do I argue with that? Especially when she widens her eyes and flashes me a genuine smile that deepens the perfect dimple in her cheek.

“You talk a lot of smack for someone who falls down the stairs on a daily basis.”

The smile she was sporting plummets and I almost feel bad for saying it. Yeah, I hear that catastrophe every morning when she stumbles down the stairs. Why she doesn’t take her socks off, I’ll never know.

“Well, you suck at hand-eye coordination. What rank were you again?”

Obviously, I didn’t hurt her feelings that bad for her to retaliate so quickly. The challenge sparkling in her eyes conjures up something inside me. Something like … need. The old Cade would have snatched the controller out of her hand and put her on her knees for a proper apology. The old Cade would want the new Cade to flip her over his knee and blister her ass until her laughter turns into moans.

But the new Cade wins out and faces forward, trying to reclaim his man card by intercepting her quarterback’s pass.

“Suck on that!” I shout.

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