Page 9 of The First Kind of Love
“It was an accident!”
Gage’s face flushes, and it would be comical if it wasn’t for the severity of the situation. “Holy shit. You need to block her. Now.”
My hands shake as they fumble with the small device that now dictates my fate, fear throttling my helpless body with hands of ice. “I can’t do that! How will we stay in touch?”
“I don’t know, man, but this is a level one security threat. She’s hit the Pentagon.”
“There’s a possibility she won’t even look at it,” Bristol offers, trying to placate the frenzy that’s shot straight into the anxiety-charged atmosphere. Everyone’s looking around at one another for a solution, all while the life-ending possibility of Shiloh reading my text increases by the minute.
I need a bag to hyperventilate into.
I start pacing around the room, busying my legs even though there’s still a searing sensation beneath my muscles, and all my thoughts turn into a slurry of worst-case scenarios. The guys are all shouting out a next plan of action, but I don’t hear anything over the deafening gallop of my heart.
You’re such an idiot, Fulton! No wonder you have no game. Hell, you couldn’t even win a girl’s heart if you were given a head start. Get used to the single life, because there’s no way on God’s green earth that you’ll make it past anything but the friend zone.
“Fuck, Ful. I’m so sorry,” Kit apologizes, raking his hand through the front of his hair.
I’m about to ameliorate his guilt when a ringing peals through the air, and every set of eyes latch onto the device vibrating in my trembling hands. The one time I actuallywouldn’tmind a scammer calling, and I get Shiloh’s number splayed across my screen like a flashing billboard.
“Shit!” I scream, instinctively chucking my phone toward the nearest body—which just so happens to be Gage’s.
Gage manages to catch it before it crashes to the ground, and he juggles it like a hot potato. “I don’t want it!”
“Neither do I!”
Without so much as a heads-up, the device goes flying into the hands of another teammate, rendering Hayes stock-still as he stares down at the magnified numbers.
I cautiously approach him with my arm outstretched like he’s some feral stray. “Don’t answer it, Hayes.”
Kit stands next to him, mouth twisted into a grimace. “Don’t do it, dude.”
There’s an interval of five seconds where no one evenbreathes, and then, of course, Hayes disregards all our warnings and answers the call with a disturbing amount of nonchalance. “Yello?”
Fuck. Fuck. FUCK! I can’t hear anything on the other side, but judging by Hayes’ earnest nods, I can only assume she’s cussing him out or threatening to get a restraining order against me.
Hayes raises his eyebrows. “You want to talk to Fulton?”
I shake my head rapidly.
“Yeah, he’s available. He’s actually right next to me.”
I’m going to kill you, Hayes Hollings.
Before I can flee the scene like a wanted criminal, Hayes thrusts the phone into my face, and I scramble to press it to my ear, hoping that the microphone won’t pick up how utterly breathless I am.
“Uh, hello?” I answer, wiping the back of my hand across my sweaty forehead.
“Fulton? It’s Shiloh. From Deja Brew. I got your text.”
Even through the crackling speaker, her voice is a balm to my nerves, soft in cadence and so beautifully melodic that each word from her lips cocoons my eardrums. It’s funny how she thinks she needs to explain who she is, as if I haven’t been dreaming about this moment for years.
“Hey, Shiloh!”
Less enthusiastic, dude.
I clear my throat, deepen my voice, and try not to sound like a teenage boy going through a second puberty. “Hey, Shiloh.”
“I hope I’m not interrupting anything. I saw your text and wanted to reach out. I didn’t really know how to respond to it,” she admits, her tone curling around a modicum of embarrassment.
