Page 77 of Her Name in Red
Maren
I'm halfway through painting my second coat ofBloodlust Redon my left big toe when I hear the doorknob clicking open. I don't look up. I just keep carefully dragging the tiny brush across my nail, pretending I don't feel the immediate shift in the air when he walks in.
“Well, isn't this cute and domestic-like?” Riggs' voice fills my apartment, amused and irritatingly confident. “You could've just waited for me, you know. I give excellent pedicures.”
I don't break my concentration. “I'm sure your hockey bros would love to hear about that hidden talent.”
He drops his gym bag by the door and moves closer, towering over me. His hair is still damp from the post-game shower, and he smells like that stupidly expensive cologne I pretend to hate.
“Or better yet,” he continues, dropping onto the couch beside me, close enough that I can feel his body heat, “you could've just sat in the front row and given me something prettier to look at than Coach's constipated face.”
I cap the nail polish and finally look at him. “Front row? Please. I have standards.”
“Standards that apparently include sneaking into my games and hiding in the nosebleeds.” His smile is infuriating, like he's won something. “Cute selfie, by the way.”
“I was in the neighborhood.” I fan my hand at my feet, avoiding his eyes. “And stop acting like I came to see you specifically. Maybe I just appreciate the violence.”
Riggs laughs, his head falling back against the couch. “Right. That's why you texted me play-by-play commentary.”
“Constructive criticism.” I reach for the bottle again, unscrewing it with deliberate slowness. “Someone needs to keep your ego in check.”
He watches me paint my pinky toe, his eyes tracking every movement. The silence stretches between us, heavy with all the things we're not saying. Like how I sat in a hockey arena for three hours just to see him. Like how he came straight here after the game instead of celebrating with his team.
“Your form is terrible,” he finally says, snatching the nail polish from my hand. Before I can protest, he's sliding to the floor, positioning himself between my legs.
“What the hell do you think you're doing?” I try to pull my foot away, but his hand wraps around my ankle, firm but gentle.
“Being useful.” He dips the tiny brush into the bottle. “Since you clearly need the help.”
I should kick him in the face. I should tell him to get out. Instead, I let him hold my foot in his calloused hands as he carefully applies the polish to my remaining toes. His touch is delicate, his focus on each brushstroke being just right.
“I saw that cheap shot in the second period,” I say, watching his face. “The one the ref missed.”
His jaw tightens slightly before one of his hands lands on my thigh, exactly where the bruise is hidden underneath my t-shirt. He doesn't press, just rests his palm there like he's claiming territory. “Three days of silence, and now this. What changed?”
I want to tell him to fuck off, to remove his hand from my leg and my foot, to stop looking at me like he knows exactly what I'm thinking. Instead, I shrug. “Nothing changed. I'm still pissed.”
“About the tracking thing?”
“Among other things.”
He looks up at me, his eyes darkening as he screws the cap back on the polish bottle. His hand is still on my thigh, thumb now making small circles.
“I'm not sorry,” he says, voice dropping low. “And I would do it again.”
I roll my eyes. “Of course you would.”
“You don't get it, do you?” He sets the polish aside and rises to his knees, bringing his face closer to mine. “You're not just some girl I'm fucking, Maren. You're my goddamn obsession.”
“Poor you,” I deadpan, but my heart is hammering in my chest.
“I know you can take care of yourself. Christ, I've seen what you can do.” His hand slides up my thigh, leaving heat in its wake. “But you shouldn't have to do it alone. You deserve someone watching your back.”
I scoff. “I don't need a bodyguard.”
“No,” he agrees, “what you need is someone to help you get rid of the bodies you like to pile up.”
The air between us freezes. My eyes narrow to slits. “What did you just say?”
