Page 32 of Offside Secrets
The driver passestwo milkshakes through the open divider, the scent of vanilla and chocolate flooding the car. Sutton accepts hers with both hands like it’s a priceless artifact.
“Chocolate, extra whipped cream,” she says, her voice lifting with satisfaction. “You are my hero.”
“I’ll take that compliment, as long as I get to wear a cape next time.” I dig for my wallet, reaching to hand the driver my card. “That was a night of suits and buttoned-up personalities, that’s for sure.”
“Yeah, when I was little I wanted to grow up and get to go to balls and galas, and all the things like my mom and dad did.” She takes a sip of her drink and chuckles. “I thought life was a dinner and dance, that’s all. Boy was I wrong.”
The driver hands my card back to me and we pull out of the drive-through lane, and I settle back into my seat. “Hey, it was dinner, we just didn’t stay for the dancing part.”
Her laugh is like music, and I can’t help staring at her profile—the curve of her lips, the way her eyes light even in shadows.
I clear my throat and reach into my jacket pocket, my fingers brushing the slightly crumpled stem I tucked away hours ago. “Speaking of bad choices,” I say, pulling the rose into view, “I think stealing this might’ve been one of mine.”
She blinks at the red rose, recognition dawning instantly. “Wait—you kept that?” Her voice tilts up, equal parts surprise and disbelief.
“Couldn’t let it go to waste.” I hold it out to her, the petals still lush despite the chaos of the evening. “Besides, I figured if that photographer was going to hand out props like party favors, I might as well make good use of one.”
Her fingers brush mine as she takes it, soft and lingering, and the car feels suddenly smaller, charged. She looks at the rose, then at me, her smile softer now, less guarded. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Maybe,” I admit, “but you’re smiling.”
And in that moment, with the scent of chocolate and whipped cream filling the space between us and the rose resting in her lap, I realize just how much I want to close the gap entirely.
She tilts her head, studying me. “This your way of saying ‘I’m sorry that I kissed my boss in front of an entire ballroom’?”
I take a long sip of my shake, keeping my eyes on hers over the straw. “Technically, you turned your head. So if anything, you kissed me.”
Her eyes widen. “I did not.”
“You did,” I counter, smug. “The photographer saw it. Pretty sure it’s evidence now.”
She groans, leaning back against the seat, shaking her head. “Unbelievable. Do you know what people would say if that photo gets around? ‘Look, Sutton Mahoney, having an affair with her player.’”
“Affair?” I grin. “That makes it sound scandalous. I was thinking more…workplace romance.”
She presses her lips together, fighting a smile, then hides behind her milkshake, sipping. The whipped cream leaves the faintest smudge on her lip, and I have to physically grip my cup to stop myself from leaning over and kissing it away.
“Not funny,” she mutters, though her voice is softer now, not nearly as sharp.
“It’s a little funny,” I say, lowering my voice as I reach out and ever so slowly slide my thumb across her lip, wiping the whipped cream away. “Besides, I’m not the one carrying a contraband rose.”
She glances down at the rose on her lap, then sets it on the console between us like it’s suddenly dangerous. “Problem solved.”
But the air doesn’t clear. If anything, it thickens, charged. She shifts slightly toward me, eyes flicking up, lingering on mine longer than they should.
I lean in before I can stop myself, the hum of the engine filling the silence between us. Her breath catches, and for one split second, I swear she’s not going to stop me.
Then she whispers, soft but firm, “Campbell…what are you doing?”
I freeze, close enough to catch the chocolate on her breath, her voice wrapping around me like a dare.
“Testing to see if the problem is solved,” I murmur, my pulse thundering.
Her laugh slips out, nervous and breathy, and then she shakes her head, turning to the window. I let out a slow exhale, trying to reel myself back in, telling myself I pushed too far. That maybe I should just sit here, sip my shake, and pretend the air between us isn’t crackling like a live wire.
And then—she turns back. Slowly.
Her eyes find mine in the dim light, darker than usual, searching for something. Permission, maybe. Or courage.
