Page 52 of Flag On The Play
Two weeks ago, I would’ve rolled my eyes and told him to get over himself.
Now?
Now I just stare at him, completely unsure if walking away would be self-preservation or the biggest mistake of my life.
“I can’t promise I won’t screw this up,” I whisper.
He brushes a strand of hair from my face, his fingers slow and gentle. “Good. Then we’ll screw it up together.”
I hate that he always says the right thing.
Worse?
I hate how badly I want to believe him.
He pushes up, leaning on his elbows. “Breakfast.”
“I’m sorry, are you offering or requesting?”
He pushes the comforter off and stands up. Naked. His ridiculously perfect body makes it impossible to look away.
Disappointment hits when he walks into his closet and my view is gone.
He comes out in a pair of gray sweatpants and tosses a shirt at me.
“Put that on and meet me in the kitchen.”
He walks out of the room, giving me the space I thought I wanted.
I slip on the Nighthawks shirt that is entirely too big and stand up.
My heart is beating fast. My pulse is racing.
“Calm down, it’s breakfast,” I whisper, shaking my head.
I pad down the hallway, still taken aback by how beautiful his penthouse is. Last night I didn’t get to appreciate just how impressive it is.
The place is massive. Like, stupidly massive.
The ceilings are high enough to echo, and floor-to-ceiling windows stretch across the far wall, revealing a skyline that looks straight out of a movie. The city is active below with cars and people everywhere, but in here it feels still. Quiet. Almost peaceful.
His living room looks like it was pulled from a high-end design catalog. Sleek, modern furniture in muted grays and deep blues. A ridiculously oversized sectional that could seat a football team and probably has. Clean lines. Minimal clutter. The kind of place that screams money and success without having to say a word.
And yet, there are hints of him everywhere. A framed photo of his team after a championship win. A game ball on a glass shelf. A pair of sneakers kicked half under the couch, like he got home and ditched them without thinking. It’s him, polished but real. Structured, but still a little chaotic around the edges.
The kitchen is all black marble and chrome, intimidating and cold like it was designed by someone who’s never cooked a damn thing in their life. But who am I to talk? I couldn’t even pull off a dinner for him.
I glance around, taking it all in. The space, the air, the view. Everything about it is a far cry from my world. I live in a small apartment, where the walls are thin and the neighbors are nosy.My apartment smells like vanilla and body spray. His smells like ambition and restraint.
But then I catch sight of a wine bottle still out from last night, two glasses beside it. A blanket half draped on the couch, where things got heated.
And suddenly, this place doesn’t feel cold at all.
It feels like possibility.
Like something new.
Like him.
