Page 61 of Face Off
The laughter dies in my throat, replaced by a rush of heat. I don’t know how to respond, so I kiss him instead, slow and tender, hoping he can feel the words I can’t say.
Sometime past midnight, we end up tangled together on the sofa, my head on his chest, his fingers tracing lazy circles on my arm. My eyelids are heavy, but I don’t want the night to end.
“You’re falling asleep on me,” he murmurs, amused.
“No, I’m not,” I mumble.
“Liar.”
“Shut up.”
He chuckles, pressing a kiss to the top of my head. “Go to sleep, Chloe.”
“You’re bossy.”
“And you like it.”
I smile against his chest, too tired to argue.
Before I drift off, I hear him whisper, almost too quiet to catch. “God, I’m so gone for you.”
I wake to sunlight streaming through the curtains and the smell of something burning. Heart pounding, I stumble into the kitchen to find Ollie standing at the stove, waving a spatula at a pan of very questionable-looking scrambled eggs.
“Morning, sunshine,” he says cheerfully, though smoke is billowing around him. “Breakfast is served!”
I gape at him. “What on earth are you doing?”
“Cooking for my lady,” he says proudly, though the eggs look like something out of a horror movie.
I burst out laughing. “That’s not food, Ollie. That’s a crime.”
“Harsh,” he says, feigning offense. “These are gourmet. Michelin-star quality.”
“Michelin would sue.”
He grins, sheepish but unbothered. “Fine. Maybe I’m better at eating breakfast than cooking it.”
I take the spatula from him before he burns the place down. “Sit. I’ll save us.”
As I start over, he perches on the counter, watching me with that soft, puppy-dog gaze that makes my knees weak.
“What?” I ask, flustered.
“Nothing,” he says, smiling. “Just thinking, I could get used to this.”
And that, God help me, terrifies me more than anything.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
OLLIE
The rink is colder than usual when I arrive, that sharp bite of air hitting the back of my throat as soon as I step onto the ice. Early morning skates always feel like punishment, but today there’s an edge to it. Game day tension settling in my chest like a weight I can’t shake.
Jacko’s already circling, the bastard. Smooth as ever, his strides look effortless, while mine still feel like I’m dragging a set of concrete boots. He spots me and smirks.
“Morning, sunshine. Bit late, aren’t we?”
I grunt, pushing off harder than I mean to. “I’m five minutes early.”
