Page 64 of Falling Offsides

No Samson today. Just him, holding a cup of coffee in one hand and a warm muffin in the other.

He doesn’t say anything when I step outside. Just holds the coffee out like it’s nothing. Like he didn’t stare at me like I was oxygen the night before. Like I didn’t remind him—us—that we’re friends. That we can’t be more.

Problem is… the air between us doesn’t get the memo.

When my fingers brush his to take the cup, the warmth zings up my arm like a live wire. I don’t need to look up to know he’s watching me.

I brush past him, sucking in a lungful of air until my chest burns. “You know this is starting to feel a little serial killer-y, right?”

He chuffs a low breath, one corner of his mouth tugging up slightly. “You’re welcome.”

“For what? My last breakfast before you push me off a cliff?”

He steps in closer, voice dropping low. “For knowing what you need before you even ask.”

My breath catches. My heartbeat stutters.

Okay, I see where we are this morning. Game on, Bruce.

I spin toward the car before he can see the flush creeping up my neck. “You could at least pretend this is about coffee and not some silent power play.”

He holds the passenger door open like the perfect gentleman, but the heat in his stare is anything but chivalrous.

“I’m not playing, Princess,” he murmurs.

My knees nearly buckle when his hand hovers over the small of my back.

Every pore of my skin is itching for him to touch me. Every thought is revolving around the moment he will, imagining it and all the ways it’ll wreck me in the best way.

Except, it never happens. Auguste’s hand never makes contact.

I climb into the passenger seat, jaw tight, pulse wild. The door clicks shut behind me with a finality that feels like a line drawn in ink.

By the time I settle in, the engine purrs to life, and then the music kicks in.

I recognize it instantly.

15 Minutesby Madison Beer drips through the speakers like honeyed venom.

Suddenly I can’t breathe.

Without air all my muscles stiffen. I’m a pent up ball of all the things I shouldn’t be when it comes to August Broussard.

The fucker absolutely put this on.

He says nothing. Just drives like he didn’t just choose a song that might as well be the soundtrack to my entire internal spiral.

The tension winds tighter with each second that plays. I ignore it. Pretend I don’t notice the song. Pretend I’m not clenching my thighs together while he drives like his hands aren’t capable of ruining me.

Instead, I stuff my mouth with the muffin.

The one he baked for me.

Wash it down with the coffee.

The one he brought me.

In the reusableSnow Whitecup he bought for me after the first time he waited outside my apartment.

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