Page 115 of Changing the Playbook
I’m laughing too hard to stand properly, sagging against him. He catches me, always catches me, and we’re both wheezing and covered in ingredients and definitely ruining his shirt beyond salvation.
“We’re a disaster,” I pant against his chest.
“The hottest disaster.” His hands frame my face. “Extremely fuckable disasters.”
“Mike!”
“It’s true.” He backs me against the counter again, and the playful mood shifts. “You have no idea what you look like right now.”
“Like I lost a fight with Italy?”
“Like you’re mine.”
He kisses me. Not soft this time. This is the kiss of a man who’s been teasing himself with touches all afternoon. His tongue sweeps into my mouth, claiming, while his hands tangle in my hair, sending my ponytail elastic flying. The sound I make would be embarrassing if I could think right now.
“Fuck the pizza,” he growls against my mouth.
“That’s unsanitary.”
I hear him laugh as I’m yanking at his shirt, desperate for skin. Needing to feel the way his abs contract under my touch,the way his breath catches when I scrape my nails down his sides.
“Sophie.” The way he says my name should be illegal. All gravel and want and barely-leashed control. “Been thinking about this all day.”
“It’s only been two hours since?—”
“Too long.” He lifts me onto the counter in one smooth motion, stepping between my thighs. “Always too long.”
My legs wrap around him instinctively, pulling him closer. His hands slip under my shirt, palms rough against my ribs, thumbs brushing the undersides of my breasts through my bra. I arch shamelessly into his touch, my body recognizing his the way lungs recognize air.
“Mike, the pizza,” I manage weakly, even as my fingers attack the button of his jeans.
“What pizza?” He catches my earlobe between his teeth, sending electricity down my spine.
Then my phone rings.
Not a text. An actual call.
And, instantly, the sound cuts through my arousal like ice water. We freeze, bodies pressed together, breathing hard. My heart hammers for a different reason now.
I look at the screen, and the word congeals my blood.
Dad.
Mike pulls back immediately, reading my face. My Dad and I don’t call. We text about crossword clues and Hazel’s crayon masterpieces and who’s on the hook to pick Hazel up today. We don’t call unless?—
“Answer it,” Mike says quietly. His hands gentle on my waist, no longer sexual. Just… there.
I slide off the counter. The phone weighs a thousand pounds in my flour-caked hand. My thumb hovers over the green buttonwhile my mind races through possibilities—each one worse than the last.
“Hey, Dad.”
“Sophie.”
One word. Two syllables. But the careful way he says it—like he’s handling something fragile, like he’s already bracing for impact—drops my stomach through the floor.
“We were at ShopRite.” Dad’s voice has that forced calm that makes bile rise in my throat. “Your mother…”
His words blur together. Started shaking. Couldn’t stand. Some customer caught her before she hit the tile. EMTs. Sirens. Hospital. North wing. Room 302. Neighbor is getting Hazel and will bring her to the hospital. Drive safe.
