Page 94 of Practice Makes Perfect
But I don’t see Linc.
Not that I’m looking for him.
The kitchen is marginally quieter, a sanctuary of sorts where I can collect my thoughts. I pour myself a generous vodka cranberry, my mind deciding as I do that if I’m going to see Linc for the first time since our last lesson—the one where he practically sprinted out the door—I’m going to be full of Dutch courage.
Thankfully, I’m spared further interrogation after Lea spots someone she knows, and I take the moment to myself. After taking a long sip of my drink, I start rehearsing casual conversation starters that I can use later with Linc… if he shows up, anyway.
Hey, remember when you ran out of my apartment like it was on fire?
Nope.
Nice goal today… wanna score with me?
Definitely not.
I’m mid-sip, mid-thought when the kitchen doorway fills with his presence.
Linc.
Oh shit.
Time does that annoying slow-motion thing it does in movies. He’s wearing dark jeans and a simple black button-up shirt with the sleeves pushed up, exposing his forearms. And for the first time I’ve ever seen, he hasn’t shaved, and the stubble along his jaw makes him look older, more rugged.
And shoots straight to the bullseye between my thighs.
Ohshit.
Our eyes lock, and suddenly I’m intensely aware of every square inch of skin that this dress leaves uncovered. And, well, let’s just say that’s alotof inches. Lea had basically told me to ‘wear it or go naked, because we’re late’, and suddenly I’m realizing there’s not much difference.
And Linc’s eyes confirm it.
His gaze drifts south from my eyes, and then back up again. From my heels, up the curve of my legs, lingering at my hips before continuing upward. By the time he reaches my face, heat has bloomed everywhere his eyes have touched. It’s like he’s already undressed me, memorized me, claimed me.
All without saying a single word.
I set my drink down harder than intended, sloshing red liquid over my fingers. Smooth. He notices too, because the corner of his lips inch up into a smirk, and there’s a twinkle in his eye. But it’s like both of our mouths are frozen, and we’ve forgotten how to talk.
“Hi,” I finally manage, which seems woefully inadequate given the entire novel of subtext passing between us.
He takes a step toward me, and I swear the temperature in the kitchen rises ten degrees with each step. But before he can respond, someone steps directly into my line of sight—a tall, muscular guy with boyish features and a Pine Barrens soccer team hoodie.
“Em, right? Louis’s cousin?” he says.
It takes my brain a moment to shift gears, and realize he’s talking to me.
“Um, yes?” I say. Double smooth.
“I’m Jake Reynolds.” He smiles. “We met at Louis’s party last year.”
“Right,” I lie, having absolutely no recollection of this person.
But, trying to not be rude, I say something vague about it being good to see him, while my eyes dart around trying to locate Linc, who has mysteriously vanished.
“Have you managed to catch a game yet?” Jake inches closer to me, his intentions clear. “Louis is having a great season.”
“She’s been busy rooting for the hockey team,” a voice says from directly beside me, and suddenly Linc’s arm is sliding around my waist, warm and solid.
Squeeeee!My mind helpfully chimes in, even as I lean into his touch.
