Page 17 of On the Line
She met Amelia’s eyes then and saw the sadness and pity and worry there. Tears welled in her own in response, and she turned away, lifting the hem of her shirt to wipe them away, playing it off as though she was mopping sweat off her face. “I don’t want to talk about this.”
“You never have.” Amelia’s tone indicated an eye roll had accompanied the statement.
Lexie turned on her and pinned her with a glare. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means it’s been six months, Lexie! And not once have you ever wanted to sit down and talk to me about what happened. How everything went so horribly wrong! And you never let me talk about Mitch. In case you forgot, in your own sad, selfish bubble where that part of your life just ceased to exist, Mitch was my friend too. We all lost someone when he left, but you want to pretend like it never happened. I know it was different for you, but…we’re all working through something here.”
Amelia stood up quickly and stalked away from Lexie as though she couldn’t bear to be near her right now.
“I’m sorry,” she said quietly.
Lexie walked over to her, and Amelia wrapped a sticky arm around Lexie’s shoulders. “I know things haven’t been easy for you. And I’ve been trying to be a good friend, but I feel that in not pushing you on this, I’ve been a bad one instead.”
“You’ve never been a bad friend a second in your life,” Lexie said, sliding an arm around Amelia’s shoulders and squeezing her to her side. “I’m just…hurting.”
“I know you are. But I need you to lean on me. On all of us,” she said. “We’ll get through this together.”
Lexie nodded, pulling away. “What do you say we grab a couple bottles of wine, some Chinese takeout, and have a movie night?”
“Your place or mine?”
“Definitely mine,” she said, thinking of the little six hundred-square foot apartment Amelia moved into after Kimber left.
Later, when they were set up in her living room on her roomie cloud-like couch, takeout containers and bottles of wine littering the glass-topped coffee table in front of them, the weight that had settled on her chest in Los Angeles lifted. Being here with Amelia reminded Lexie of the old days, back before she and Berkley met Mitch, before Berkley started dating Brent, and everything changed, back when it had just been them against the world.
Too bad it couldn’t have stayed that way.
Two Years Ago...
Allnight,Lexiehadtried, and failed, not to track Mitch’s movements from across the crowded room. The loft was huge and full of people; there was absolutely no way she should have been able to find him every time she lifted her eyes to scan the space.
And yet, that’s exactly what happened.
And more often than not, she found him already looking at her. Butterflies had set up camp in her stomach because she knew what came next, what all this dancing around each other would lead to, especially after their first attempt had been interrupted.
Not that she was blaming Berkley for that. Never. Her friend had needed her, and Mitch had endeared himself to both of them that night by being so sweet and gentle. He didn’t have to stay and help Lexie take care of Berkley, though she couldn’t deny that she was glad he did.
But now, Lexie wanted him to take care ofher.
And not in the friendly, big brother kind of way he’d used on Berkley.
She was standing near the bar, making small talk with a few of Mitch and Brent’s teammates, still nursing the same beer she’d asked the bartender for an hour before.
When she turned away from Rat—or Grey; she got them confused more often than not—her eyes immediately latched onto Mitch’s.
Lexie had moved around a lot as a kid, and seen and been with many attractive men. Through all of that, she could honestly say she had never found herself sexually attracted to a man who rocked flannel.
Mitch Frambough was proving to be the exception.
Every single thing about the man drew her in, from his long, thick legs that strained against the seams of dark jeans, to the way his red checked button up shirt was thrown so casually over a white tee with a vee deep enough to offer a tantalizing glimpse of the strong column of his neck and lines of his collarbones and the dip of his sternum between his pecs, to the sleeves rolled to his elbows, showing off strong forearms dusted with hair.
And his hair. Lord, that man’s hair. Before tonight, she’d only ever seen him with a Warriors ball cap settled backwards on his head, the thick dirty blond strands falling straight to brush the collar of his shirt. But tonight, he’d forgone the hat and tied it into a low bun at the base of his skull. Lexie’s fingertips itched to pull the elastic free, grip a handful, and beg him to make her come.
As her gaze connected with his again, a small smirk tipped up one corner of his mouth, as though he could read her thoughts clear across the room.
Not that she minded, especially not when his eyes slowly cast down then back up, and she could practically feel his perusal like a brand on her skin.
She so badly wanted his hands to follow the trail his eyes raked across her body.
