Page 46 of The Love Dare
It’s inevitable.
He had all week to speak to her—he didn’t. She’s been misreading the signs for her entire life, and the last puzzle ceremony was no different. She has no idea what he was trying to tell her with that little Romeo quip, but whatever it was, it doesn’t matter.
She’s got to let it go.
To let him go.
Then, “Winnie.”
He says it before Keith even has time to finish speaking, as if he’s been holding it in for so long he just can’t keep it in a single moment more. His eyes burn, the blue heat at the center of the flame as they sweep over her, lighting her up on the inside. Even as she tells herself not to overreact, every inch of her comes alive with the spark. He’s looking at her as if he wants to devour her, raking his gaze down her body, mapping a path. Fire shoots up her spine and deep into her belly. By the time she’s standing in front of him, she’s worried the barest touch will make her combust.
“Will you accept this puzzle piece?” he asks in that low, shiver-inducing, bedroom voice.
Winnie’s defenses are helpless against it. “Yes.”
He sweeps her hair to the side as he did before, a move she can’t help but remember he didn’t repeat with any of the other women that night. Warm breath tickles her skin. A wave of tingles cascades down her shoulders as he settles the necklace into place, fingers tracing the high edge of her neckline. She didn’t realize she’d donned this dress like armor, but maybe she had, because even the memory of him hooking his finger aroundthe thin strap of her red gown leaves her breathless. He turns his face just barely to the side. His lips graze the shell of her ear.
“Hope is a lover’s staff,” he whispers.
Two Gentlemen of Verona, she recalls—a lesser-known play, but one of their professor’s favorites, which is why they studied the comedy for a solid two weeks.
Tyler’s gaze is intent as he pulls back.
Please, his eyes seem to say.Please.
But she isn’t sure what he’s asking. Please what? Who is the lover? Who’s holding the staff? What hope? Shakespeare lived five hundred years ago, but somehow, he’s easier for Winnie to interpret than this flesh-and-blood man standing before her, pleading with her to do…something.
She turns to go, but he takes her by the hand.
Winnie looks back.
He drags his thumb across her knuckles, squeezing her fingers as if he doesn’t want to let go. Some unspoken struggle pinches his brow, draws a deep groove down the center of his forehead. His jaw clenches. He flicks his gaze to the side.
Winnie follows that glance directly to Nina.
The producer stares at Tyler expectantly, but his eyes are already back on Winnie. She feels their heat like a brand as he lifts her hand to his lips. He holds his mouth against her skin for a beat too long, demanding her attention. She gives it, but the wheels in the back of her mind start spinning.
Nina.
Tyler.
Anglerfish.
Drama.
There’s something there. She turns the words over again and again, trying to work out the story—what the producer might have on Tyler, what game they might be playing—but the details matter less and less as three more date cards arrive thefollowing day, not a single one carrying her name. Whatever is going on behind the scenes isn’t important. If Tyler wanted to speak to her, he would. If he wanted to be with her, he would. His friendship with her brother wouldn’t hold him back. His relationship with her father wouldn’t either. And whatever this producer told him sure as hell wouldn’t stop him. If she were truly what he wanted, he wouldn’t be stringing her along with Shakespeare quotes one day and dead silence the next.
She’s over it.
Which is why, when she finally hears her name in the roll call for the group date the next day, Winnie isn’t elated to finally be chosen.
She’s freaking pissed.
A feeling which only intensifies as they’re led into the arena housing the Los Angeles Royals. While the other girlsoohandahhover the backstage access to the team’s locker room, Winnie crosses her arms like a petulant child. Of course, her one date is all about hockey. She can’t escape it—the game, the chill, the constant reminders of their deep, complicated history. The last time she was in this arena, she was with her parents, cheering from the friends-and-family box with the wordBriggsprinted between her shoulder blades. She was swooning at every glance Tyler made toward the stands, hanging on every possible moment, searching for meaning. But that was before she looked him in the eyes and told him she loved him.
Breadcrumbs just don’t freaking cut it anymore.
Okay, yes. She’s acting like a prima donna. But dammit, he should be treating her differently from everyone else. Who cares if there are ten other women on this date? Those ten other women don’t have their past, don’t have twelve years of pent-up sexual tension. For the first time in her life, she wants to feel special.
