Page 38 of The Cruelest Kind of Hate
“Oh, I’ve known this whole time.”
I wipe off the makeup-tinged massacre on my face. “Of course you did,” I mutter.
He shoots me a grin like a well-thrown dagger. “It’s my job to annoy you, Spitfire. Can’t have you growing a big head like me.”
“I should honestly thank you for saving me from Gage levels of stupidity,” I tease.
“I live to please.”
The lightheartedness from the conversation tapers, leaving a terrible taste in my mouth like cigarette ash on my palette. “What about my mom, Gage? I-I don’t know what to do.”
I don’t feel any more wetness on my face, but Gage still brushes his knuckles over my cheekbone, warmth kindling in the sage pits of his eyes. “I’ll help you both with whatever you need. If you need me to go down and visit her, I will. If you need me to take Teague to hockey practice so you can get to class on time, I will. If you need me to drive you down to visit her, I will. There’s nothing you can ask of me that I won’t do,” he insists.
“That’s…a big commitment,” I whisper, staring down at the watery blemishes shimmering on Gage’s sleeves.
“You’re a big commitment,” he reiterates as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
“We’re not together. You do know that, right?”
“Like I said, notyet.”
That dreaded smirk of his haunts me in my dreams. And out of them. I roll my eyes, only to divert my attention from the unexplained pickup in my heart rate. “You sound just like you did when you embarrassed me in front of Dilbert.”
Taking this next step with Gage not only means letting him help me with my mom, but it means spending more time with him than I already am, and time has a way of…stirring feelings up. Including sexual ones.
We can be friends who fuck. I appreciate all that he’s done for me, but I don’t think I’m ready for anything more serious. And I know Gage is. He was ready the moment I met him.
He releases a groan. “You really need to stop having another man’s name in your mouth.”
“Or what?” I egg him on.
In hindsight, I shouldn’t have said anything. In hindsight, I also didn’t realize how dirty my response sounded.
He yanks me by the collar close enough so we’re nose to nose, and I’m not sure if it’s the moonlight or the strangely romantic setting, but his lips look softer than a snowbank. “OrI’ll make sure to drag his face across the plexiglass the first game I’m back on the ice,” he growls.
I blink. I flush. Or maybe I break out into hives. I don’t know what I do, but as usual, my brain short-circuits, and my tongue ties itself into a cumbersome knot. Possessiveness isn’t usually something that gets me so hot and bothered, but when Gage is the one outpouring with jealousy, my belly does all sorts of acrobatics.
I wish I’d ripped my foot out of my mouth before I spoke. “Psh. You wouldn’t,” I deflect nervously.
He wouldn’t, right?
“Can goaltend just fine with a few bruised knuckles.”
Oh, God. He would. Gage absolutely would.
Tight-lipped, I quickly change the subject when I notice his fingers still enwrapped in his hoodie, and then I realize I never gave it back to him. Uh, not that he’d want it now after I slobbered all over it.
I begin to lift it up over my head anyways, but Gage stops me.
“Don’t,” he commands in that stupidly gruff voice of his. “It looks better on you.”
The hoodie slips back over my head, and I feel my cheeks toast at least twenty degrees hotter, undoubtedly ripening them into a bright pink blush.
A smile hangs from Gage’s lips, and both of us dwell in the subsequent silence. None of it is awkward or uncomfortable—which I didn’t know was possible—but I guess it just takes the right person. He’s staring at me the entire time, and it feels like he’s drowning himself in my eyes to get to the bottom of a pain-filled quarry.
“Can I kiss you right now?” he asks in a hushed whisper. “I know you’re emotional, and I would never want to take advantage of you. I…fuck. I just really want to kiss you right now, Cali.”
There’s a surprising shamefulness to his tone, one that I’ve never heard before. “You want to kiss me?”
