Page 102 of Changing the Playbook
twenty-nine
SOPHIE
My reflectionin the bathroom mirror looks ready to face a firing squad rather than attend a nursing school mixer.
“It’s just dancing,” I tell her. “In front of professors who determine clinical placements and might judge your ability to interact with humans…”
She doesn’t look convinced.
The dress Maya insisted I buy hangs on the back of my door—navy blue, professional enough for faculty, with a neckline that acknowledges I possess a pulse. I’ve changed my mind about wearing it seventeen times in the last hour, but my phone buzzing saves me from another.
Mike:
Five minutes out. Should I bring a sword to fight off your admirers?
I type back:
The only fighting will be between me and my desire to fake a medical emergency.
His reply arrives instantly:
Please don’t. I already told Maine I’d bring him leftovers from the fancy catering.
The fact that he’s already planning post-mixer snack distribution for his teammates sends warmth spreading through my chest. Most guys would complain about attending their girlfriend’s work function. Mike treats it as an adventure.
Girlfriend.
The word still surprises me sometimes. A gift I’m not sure I’ve earned.
I pull on the dress before overthinking derails me completely. The fabric skims over curves Mike has recently memorized with his hands, and my skin prickles at the memory of last night. How he’d pressed me against my apartment door the moment we got inside, how his fingers had traced paths that still burn…
Focus, Sophie. Professional event. Professors. Networking.
The doorbell saves me from that particular spiral. When I open the door, my brain stalls. Mike in jeans and a Henley devastates me daily, but seeing Mike wearing a charcoal blazer over a crisp white button-down should be illegal in at least thirty-seven states.
“Hi.” The word emerges embarrassingly breathy.
His eyes travel slowly from my heels to my face. “You look…”
“Like someone who owns an iron?”
“Incredible. Though your iron skills are also notable.” He steps inside. “I brought you something.”
I eye the small bag in his hand. “If it’s alcohol to help me survive tonight, I’ll marry you.”
“Better.” He pulls out a pack of multicolored pens, the expensive kind with precise tips that I covet every time I pass the campus bookstore.
I stare at them. They’re exactly what I need but would never buy because the bookstore charges criminal prices. “Mike…”
“Too nerdy? I can exchange them for flowers or?—”
I kiss him. Hard. What starts as gratitude quickly ignites into something else as his hand finds my waist and suddenly I’m pressed against him, the pens forgotten. My hands slide under his blazer, searching for skin, desperate for more contact, and?—
“Sophie.” He pulls back, breathing hard. “We’ll be late.”
“Would that be terrible?”
He laughs. “Yes, because you’d spend the entire night feeling guilty.”
