Page 51 of Coming In Hot
Pharo just smirks, one eyebrow arching as he meets my gaze. “Doing what, exactly?”
I can feel my skin flush, but I won’t back down. Not now. Not with him sitting there like this, challenging everything we’ve built up—or destroyed—over the years.
“Don’t play games,” I mutter, trying to shove down the sudden tide of emotion.
He leans in, close enough that I can feel the heat of his breath, and the whole room goes quiet. Of course. He knows exactly what he’s doing.
“You know how this goes, Jax,” he murmurs, the teasing tone back in his voice, but underneath, there's a rawness that makes me pause. “We’re always playing games.”
It’s official. Things have shifted. We’re not just two people who can’t stand each other anymore.
And I have no idea what that means yet.
Riggs takes his seat and brings the introduction to a halt as he stares pointedly at us. “If the seating arrangement is a problem, you can take this opportunity to find a new seat.”
Pharo grins smugly. I’m so fucking annoyed to be the center of attention. “Thanks, Riggs, but I’m a big boy.”
I quickly turn away, my gaze darting around the room, trying to find something—anything—that isn’t him sitting way too close to me. The Bitches are still watching. They always are. My friends, my crew. They probably feel the tension. They’ve got to be wondering why Pharo, of all people, is sitting beside me. They’re waiting for me to make a move. To say something.
But I don’t know what to say.
He shifts in his seat, his thigh brushing against mine, and I swear my breath hitches. It’s not on purpose. Or at least, I tell myself it isn’t. He’s just that fucking close, and I can’t escape it.
Focus.I can't let him do this to me. He’s not going to make me feel something by sitting next to me. It’s just a seat. Just a fucking chair.
But the problem is, it’s not just a seat.
It’s Pharo.
I glance at him, and this time, it’s him who’s looking away, acting like he’s not aware of how his mere presence messes with my head. The way his hand is draped casually over the back of the chair like he belongs there—it makes my pulse spike.
Why the hell does he have to be so confident? So infuriatingly sure of himself, as if he knows exactly how much this fucks with me.
“Act natural. Take out your yarn and needles. Knit one of those hats you love,” he says after a beat, his voice soft, almost like he’swatchingme, studying me.
“I don’t know why you’re doing this,” I mutter, more to myself than to him, though I know he hears me. Leaning down, I grab my supplies from the bag at my feet. The charcoal grey yarn is in the beginning stages of what will be a new beanie.
He leans in a little closer, his face serious now, the playfulness gone. “Maybe I’m just tired of the games, too, Jax. Or maybe… maybe I’m tired of pretending we don’t want this. Don’t wanteach other.”
Motherfucker. He might as well shout it through a megaphone. Pharo doesn’t seem particularly worried about anyone overhearing or getting the wrong impression.
I shift in my chair, trying to regain some composure. “You’re out of your mind.”
His smirk widens, but there’s a hint of something softer in his eyes. “Am I? Or maybe you're just afraid of what happens when you stop pretending.”
That hits harder than I want it to. Because he’s right. I’ve been pretending. I’ve been hiding behind the walls, the games, the bickering. But the truth is—deep down, I’m scared of what happens when I stop.
When I stop pretending, when I stop keeping him at arm's length.
“Just so you know,” I say sharply, “I’m not making this beanie for you.”
He dips his head close, his breath ghosting the shell of my ear. My heart skips a beat. “Don’t need it. I already have one of yours.”
He does? He must have stolen it, because I know for a fact I’ve never given him one. Why in the hell would I?
The bigger question is, why would he want one?
I’m dying to know the answer, but now isn’t the time to ask.
