Page 58 of Pick Six
If only she knew how great I was at faking smiles and acting pleasant. Not only had I practiced it a million times on and off the field, in press conferences, and in dealing with my own family. But I’d had plenty of practice in this very fucking house.
THIRTY-ONE
Harper
He looksirritated all over again, and I knew this would be a bad idea. We should have just waited until tomorrow. I might have been able to just brush this all off, lie and say I’d just been in a weird mood tonight. Apologize for the weird jealous streak. But now we’re arguingagain. I don’t have a lot of practice with them but I’m fairly certain fake relationships shouldn’t be this complicated.
“Like I said, I don’t think either of us is in the right frame of mind.”
“You’re right. Come here.” He reaches his hand out for mine.
“What?” I stare at his hand.
“I’m going to reframe this for you.” He extends his fingertips, and I reluctantly place my hand in his.
He threads our fingers, gripping me tightly and pulls me behind him walking me to the dining room and flicking on the light.
“What are you doing?”
“Illustrating it for you. Because I want you to imagine sitting at this table, one holiday after the next. Coming to every fucking stupid dinner and birthday and BBQ because you want to see this person so badly, and it’s the only way you can. Because you fucked up one night years ago, and this is the only way you even get a window into their life now. An opportunity to see them, talk to them. At least know they’re happy even if you can’t be the reason for it. And while you sit there and eat at this table—your fucking turkey or hamburger or whatever festive fucking food the occasion requires, you have to watch them smiling at their spouse, entertaining his family, touching him, kissing him… Knowing he’s going to take her upstairs later and fuck her to his heart’s content while you fucking go home and stare at the ceiling wishing you could take back one stupid fucking mistake that could have changed everything.”
My heart is pounding in my chest by the end of it, and we stand in some of the loudest silence I’ve experienced in my life.
“Alex…” I whisper.
“Strip.”
“What?” I ask, a sharp intake of breath cutting off the word.
“Take the pants off, and whatever sheer strip of lace you have on under them.”
“I think—“
“You said you wanted this to be fair, right?”
“Yes…”
“Then strip.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m going to eat at this fucking table.”
I can hear the sound of my heartbeat in my ears as I slide my hands under the elastic of the sweatpants I have on, staring at him and wondering what the hell is happening. Trying to make sense of what he just said to me. Because I can’t have heard him right.
He grows impatient with my progress, grabbing the material and practically tearing them off me, pinning me against the wall, and pulling my sweater off next until I’m standing in front of him in just my underwear. My hands go to the hem of his shirt, and he helps me pull it off. My palms go to his chest, so much muscle and ink there that I want to explore but when he moves forward to kiss the side of my neck the chain he wears swings forward, and I catch it.
“Did you really forget?” I whisper.
“Did you forget that night?” he whispers against my skin in return.
“No.”
“There’s your answer.”
His mouth is on my throat then, kissing and biting his way over my flesh and he hauls me up into his arms, turning and depositing me on the table. He pauses only to strip my panties off and toss them to the floor.
“Scoot forward and spread these pretty fucking thighs for me,” he orders as he sits down in the dining chair.
