Page 32 of Sexting the Coach
Slowly, she pulls the hat off my head, her throat bobbing when she does, her eyes trailing down over me, then back up to my hair.
I’m taller than her—though not by much—so she has to reach up to touch her fingertips to my hair.
I suck in a breath, jaw tightening, fingers curling into fists.
Logically, I know I should stop this. I shouldn’t let her touch me like this. Not only just because I’m not in the mood for a pep talk, but also because this entire thing is supposed to be fake. A ruse.
I’m not actually supposed to want to step into her, settle my hands on her hips, pull her body against mine.
“I like it,” she says, after a long moment of tension so thick I could wrap my hand around it. My eyes skip to hers, honey brown, and I realize she’s telling the truth.
I swallow. “You’re just saying that.”
“I am not.”
“It’s exactly the kind of thing you would say,” I grouse. “Always positive.”
“First, I’m telling you the truth,” she says, frowning, “and second, I really do like it. Think of the Blue Crabs coach—Harrison Clark. He’s like, the hottest coach in the NHL.”
“Ok-ay,” I force a laugh, ignoring the ripple of—what? Jealousy? That pushes through me at the idea of her thinking another coach in the NHL is hot. Or any man, for that matter. “He’s way too old for you.”
“Hasn’t stopped me yet,” she says, her voice low. When she takes a breath, her chest touches mine.
Fuck it.
The moment I let go of my restraint, my arm is snaking around the small of her back, drawing her into me, and she comes easily, her body warm under my touch.
I lower my head, lips already anticipating the feeling of hers on mine—but then, the contact doesn’t happen.
“Wolfe.”
Fincher stands in the doorway to the PT room, and on muscle memory I take the hat from Elsie again tucking it over my head as I glare at him. How many times is this asshole going to barge in on us?
“Yes?” I ask, glancing at Elsie, whose entire face is flushed like we’re not supposed to be seen together, even though, as far as Fincher and the public knows, we are very much dating.
Fincher pauses, like he’s not quite sure what he wanted when he barged in here, his eyes darting between me and Elsie. Thank God he came in here when he did, and not when I was doing one of her exercises.
“Did you need something?” I bark, and Fincher just scowls, turning and leaving the room without another word.
When I turn back to her, I have half a mind to drag her in and finish what we started, but she’s already taking a step back, already packing up the stuff.
“Alright,” she says, her eyes flicking to mine for just a second. “I think that’s enough for the night.”
And, not for the first time, I’m watching Elsie turn around and walk away while I’m left with a mountain of feelings and urges that I have absolutely no fucking idea what to do with.
Chapter 13
Elsie
“We’re going to watch from up here,” Mabel says, turning and glancing at me. I’m standing at the door, and she and Hattie are on their knees, facing backward on the couch so they can stare out the large bay window. It faces the street.
Where Weston is going to pull up. To pick me up for ourdate.
“Don’t watch me,” I say, fluffing my hair one last time in the little mirror by the door, trying to ignore the way my stomach flutters. It’s been two days since we almost kissed in the PT room, and I get the feeling Weston is purposefully keeping his distance from me, like he doesn’t want to risk touching me again.
Meanwhile, it’s the only thing I can think about. At night, before I fall asleep, I feel his arm around the small of my back. I picture laying on his chest, lifting my head up to run my lips over the scruff of his beard. Since that night—learning that he has silver hairs coming in—I’ve wanted to examine his facial hair, too, see if I can pick out any little silver pieces in it.
I meant what I said. About liking the silver.
