Page 53 of Pucking Matt
From what I’ve seen lately, Amber has been enjoying herself. Her eyes are less tense, and her lips aren’t as perched. Her wall is still up, but it’s going to crack and crumble someday soon, and the party is a perfect place. Not that I need her drunk to see that I’m not all bad, but it would help my case. But I’m not even sure what the point of inviting her is. Besides it being a challenge. I knew she would decline. She wanted a war, sure. But I knew I was going to win. She’s okay with being friends? Sure, but come to a party and hang out to confirm it. I’m not wrong here, am I?Testing her limits is my favorite hobby. Maybe I care a little too much about pushing her buttons.
She walks up to me, ignoring the order I’m making and says, “I’m not hanging out with you outside of these walls.”
I look over my shoulder at her, adding in lettuce. “Why the hell not?”
She scowls, “I don’t think you have any idea how busy I am.”
“Ah.” I click my tongue, adding salt and pepper to the sandwich now. “I forgot you’re not a college girl.”
“Right, so my responsibilities are different from yours. I don’t have the pleasure of partying every weekend.”
I finish wrapping up the sandwich, so I hand it to her. Except, I don’t let go. Our fingers are barely touching, but I can feel the heat of hers less than an inch away.
I whisper, “Then come to my game.”
She shakes her head. “What? I just told you––”
“You just said you don’t have thepleasure of partying every weekend, but surely you have time for a hockey game?”
She steals the sandwich from my hand. “I don’t.”
After she calls out the customer’s name, another one comes in. We’re busy with work, ignoring each other now.
When it’s close to closing, I say, “So, if you’re little miss busy then where did you find the time for Harvey’s invitations?”
Ooh, she doesn’t like that. Her brows furrow and that perched lip is back.
“Don’t be mad I’m calling you out,” I joke, smiling because I’m enjoying this.
“I’m not mad. It’s just funny.”
“Yeah, funny. It’s whatever, Amby. I’ll just tell Jen you refused.”
“Why are you talking to Jen?” she asks, a little overprotective tone in her voice.
“None of your business.” I smile, and she hates it. Her face drops, and her brows lift.
She shakes her head. “I didn’t know Jen was your type.”
“I don’t have a type.”
“Yeah, right. I’m sure you do. Everybody has a type.”
I shake my head. “Stop changing the subject, Amber. What are you scared of?”
She smiles now, maybe blushing. She says, “I know what you’re doing.”
“Yeah?” I ask, starting to get annoyed. “What is that?”
“Playing our game.” She grabs the ranch dressing and pours a drop on her finger. And then she walks up to me. “If you want to play, we can play.” She wipes the ranch dressing on my cheek, and I stare at her, my chest buzzing with amusement.
When she walks away to clean her finger with a napkin, she turns to me, “You have a little something there, Pearson.”
I wipe my cheek with my shoulder. It’s more than I thought, so I steal the napkin from her hand and use it to wipe my face. Her amber eyes are glowing as she looks up at me. Ooh, she loves a challenge.
“For the sake of a good time, the offer is still on the table. So, if you change your mind––”
“You’re a piece of work.” She works her bottom lip between her teeth.
