Page 85 of Power Play
“You should see the ego on me now, Hart. Unmanageable.”
I smile into the phone, slouching deeper into my sofa. “You coming over later?”
“Try and stop me. Bringing snacks. Don’t eat.”
“You never say that when I’m in a dress.”
He groans. “Woman, I’m at the rink. Do you want me sent off for inappropriate conduct?”
“Just trying to keep your blood pressure up. Cardio’s important.”
He mutters something about me being a tease and hangs up.
When he shows up later, he smells like the rink, and he’s still in his training kit, with his trackies slung low on his hips, and his hair still damp from a quick shower, his grin is cocky as hell.
“Nice of you to dress up,” I say, eyeing his hoodie.
“You say that now, but you’ll be stealing it in twenty minutes.”
“Bold of you to assume I want your sweat.”
“Please. You’d bottle my pheromones if you could.”
I toss a cushion at him. He dodges and makes a beeline for the kitchen, pulling out the snacks he brought, crisps, chocolate, and two bottles of something fizzy that definitely isn’t Prosecco but he’s calling “date night bubbles” anyway.
“Come here,” he says, pulling me onto the sofa beside him. “Had a shite training session. I need my emotional support goblin.”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
I raise a brow. “Say that again and I’ll eat all your crisps.”
He tilts his head, smug. “Say that again and I’ll let you.”
This is what we are now. Easy. Flirty. Sharp edges softened by shared snacks and way too much touching. He throws an arm around me as if he owns the furniture and the space I take up, like I fit here. And weirdly, I do.
He ends up with his head in my lap, scrolling through TikTokwhile I pretend to work. I braid a section of his hair because he doesn’t stop me, and he hums whenever my nails skim his scalp.
“You know you’re ridiculous, right?” I say, twirling the tiny plait at his temple.
He looks up at me with that lopsided grin. “Youlikethat I’m ridiculous.”
“Debatable.”
“Liar.”
I lean down and kiss him. It’s lazy and warm and familiar in a way that makes my chest ache. He hums against my mouth, his hands sliding up my thighs, it’s kind of casual but not casual at all.
“You keep kissing me like that,” he murmurs, “and I’m going to forget we were supposed to eat.”
“Was that ever really the plan?”
He sits up and pulls me into his lap like it’s the most obvious solution. “Depends. You want snacks or me?”
I eye the crisps. “Tough call.”
“Cheek.” But then he kisses me again, and I forget what crisps even are.
