Page 57 of Triple Play
I’m not thinking about it.
Except I am. Obviously. Because I’m human and petty and apparently a masochist.
The front door opens.
I don’t look up. I keep my eyes on my textbook like the vagus nerve is the most fascinating thing I’ve ever read about.
Footsteps. Then silence.
I can feel him looking at me. Grant.
“You’re in my spot.” His voice is flat, carefully neutral.
Now I look up.
He’s standing in the doorway. Dark jeans, black henley that fits too well. Hair slightly messed, like someone ran their fingers through it. Cologne I can smell from here—cedar and something expensive.
My stomach does something stupid.
“Then sit somewhere else, Captain.”
I go back to my notes. Highlight a passage I’ve already highlighted. My hand is steady even though my pulse isn’t.
He could leave. Should leave. Go upstairs to his room and leave me alone with my cranial nerves and wounded pride.
He sits down across from me instead.
I can smell him properly now. I can see the way his jaw is tight. The way his ice-blue eyes are fixed on me like I’m a problem he’s trying to solve.
Two can play this game.
I keep studying. Turn a page. Make a note. Pretend he’s not there even though every nerve ending I’ve been studying is currently firing.
The silence stretches. Thick. Loaded.
I’m aware of everything: the sound of his breathing, the way he shifts in his seat, the heat radiating off him across the small space.
Neither of us speaks. Neither of us leaves.
This is insane. We’re grown adults sitting in silence like we’re in some kind of standoff. Like whoever speaks first loses.
I’m not losing.
I reach for my coffee. Take a sip. It’s disgusting now, but I don’t care. I’m making a point.
“You always study this late?” His voice cuts through the quiet. Rough, like he hasn’t used it much tonight. Maybe he and his date didn’t do much talking.
I look up. He’s watching me with an intensity that makes my breath catch.
“You always come home this early from your dates?”
The emphasis on the last word is sharp. Deliberate.
His jaw ticks. That muscle jumping like it does when he’s pissed.
“They’re not dates.”
“Right. What do you call them then?” I set my mug down. Meet his eyes head-on. “Booty calls? Hookups? Random girls you use to avoid dealing with your feelings?”
