Page 93 of Playing for the Hat Trick
“I’m not doing this,” I say, standing. “This isn’t where this goes.”
He stands, too. “Then where does it go, Scottie?”
I stare at him, heart thudding. My mouth opens, but nothing comes out.
Because I don’t know.
I don’t know where this goes. I just know I don’t want it to end.
“I don’t know where this goes,” I admit the words tasting foreign in my mouth. “I just know it wasn’t supposed to be here.”
Jason doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t soften. He stands there, tall and still, coffee forgotten, shirtless and impossible, watching me like he sees through the armor I’ve spent years building.
And I hate it.
I hate how easy he makes this look. Like staying is a reflex. Like intimacy isn’t dangerous. Like sex was the beginning instead of the beginning of the end.
“You think I planned any of this?” he asks finally, voice low, rough around the edges. “You think I sat around dreaming up the perfect time to fuck my best friend’s sister in the middle of my recovery?”
I wince. “Nice. Super romantic.”
He steps closer. “I didn’t plan it, Scottie. But I’m not going to lie and pretend I haven’t thought about it. It’s haunted me since Tokyo.”
My breath catches. I look away toward the window. Morning spills in, bright and unforgiving—the kind of light that reveals everything.
“I’m not looking for complicated,” I whisper.
Jason exhales. “This doesn’t have to be complicated, Ella. We’re two grown-ups who can communicate and make things simple, enjoyable, and, if possible, permanent.”
Not sure why my head snaps and my heart squeezes when he calls me Ella, but then the rest . . . permanent. Who does permanent these days? I don’t . . . I can’t.
There’s a beat. Then two. Long enough for the silence to settle over us like a weighted blanket I didn’t ask for, but it feels nice and not asphyxiating as I once assumed.
Jason leans against the counter like he’s got all the time in the world. Arms folded. Shirt rumpled. Bedhead cocky. His gaze pins me in place like I’m the subject of a very thorough, very unfair scientific study.
“You don’t have to decide anything right now.”
“I’m not deciding.” I lie without flinching.
He tilts his head like he’s indulging me. “You’re panicking.”
“No.” I lift my chin. “I’m assessing.”
“Uh-huh.” His mouth twists, not quite a smile. “Assessing how fast you can leave this place and pretend I never made you come so hard you forgot your middle name?”
“I didn’t forget it.”
“You moanedTatelike it was the only word you’ve ever known.”
I slap a hand to my temple, groaning. “You’re not supposed to know me this well.”
Jason shrugs, casual as sin. “I’ve known you since you were a bossy teenager yelling at Leif for stealing your fries.”
“They were my fries.”
His grin breaks through like a crack in the armor. “You think I haven’t spent years cataloging your tells?”
I don’t answer. I can’t. My throat’s doing that thing—tight and stupid and way too full of things I’m not ready to say.
