Page 8 of Triple Play
“Are we done here? I have unpacking to do.”
He doesn’t move. He just stands there, looking at me with those ice-blue eyes—the same eyes that looked at me next to that bonfire like I was something precious.
“I didn’t know you’d be here,” he says finally.
“Yeah, you made that clear.”
“This is my house.”
“And? You want me to leave? Take it up with housing.” I turn back to my boxes, dismissing him. “I’m not going anywhere.”
I hear him move. For a second, I think he’s leaving. Then his voice comes from right behind me.
“You should have picked a different school.”
I spin around. He’s close—too close. I can smell him, and it’s not fair that he still smells the same.
“I picked the best program. The best opportunity for my future.” I meet his eyes and don’t back down. “I didn’t choose it to torture you, if that’s what you’re implying.”
“I’m not implying anything.”
“Good. Then we’re on the same page.”
His eyes drop to my mouth, just for a second. But I catch it.
My pulse spikes.
“Stay out of my way,” he says. “I’ll stay out of yours.”
“Perfect plan.”
“Perfect.”
Neither of us moves.
The air between us is charged, electric—like two years dissolved, and we’re back at that bonfire with bourbon, hope, and terrible timing.
Then Jordie appears in my doorway, all golden energy and zero sense of timing.
“Hey, I was thinking we could order pizza—” He stops mid-sentence, looking between me and Grant. “Uh. Am I interrupting?”
“No,” Grant and I say at the same time.
Jordie grins. “Are you sure?”
He steps into my room, and that’s when I see it—hanging from his finger: a pair of my underwear—black lace, one of the nicer pairs I own—that must have fallen out of my suitcase.
My face goes hot.
“These were in the hallway.” Jordie holds them up like a trophy, his grin widening. “Cute.”
“Give me those.” I lunge for them, but he’s an athlete and holds them out of reach, laughing.
Grant’s expression darkens—dangerous.
“Dickson.” His voice is low, lethal. “Put them down.”
“I’m just trying to be helpful—”
