Page 112 of Powerless
“Youhaveplayed better since you and I ...” I wiggle my eyebrows suggestively, and his fingers pulse on my ass.
“You trying to take credit for our wins?”
“It’s science, Gervais. You can’t argue with it. You were sucking and now you’re not. Your winning streak is going to break records at this rate. My pussy is good luck. The kingmaker. No . . .” I hold a hand up. “The Stanley Cup Maker.”
Jasper gives me a flat expression. “I’m not calling your pussy The Stanley Cup Maker, Sunny.”
I giggle, feeling all girlish and giddy sitting in my childhood crush’s lap, in the snow, under a starlit sky, like it’s the most normal thing in the world. And then I drop my head down to kiss him, the cold tips of our noses brushing together. The stubble on his cheeks pokes through the thin knit of my gloves, scratching against my palms as I hold his handsome face.
When I practiced my choreography out here as a child, I dreamed of kissing him, his hands on me, his warm, sure body under mine.
I thought I loved him then, but I’m not so sure I did. I was infatuated with him. This? Now?
It’s different. We’re different.
“I missed you too, Jas,” I whisper against his lips as I pull away to run my hands over his hair, trying to remember the last time he’s worn a cap. Maybe when he works out? Or when we work on the house together. His cap functions more as a way to keep his hair out of his face now than to hide behind.
It seems like maybe he’s done hiding.
Maybe we both are.
“I got a call today,” I continue, taking in his heavy brows and the fine lines across his forehead.
“Yeah?” His hands rub firm circles over the globes of my butt cheeks, warming me better than my thermal leggings.
Light snow falls, and I watch a crystalline flake land on his dark lashes, suspended there for a moment until he blinks.
“Yeah. The backup dancer for the Sugarplum Fairy inThe Nutcrackeris out with the flu and the principal dancer for the role has Achilles tendinitis that needs a rest. They asked me to step in tomorrow for the final show before Christmas since I danced the part last year.”
“And? Are you happy about that?”
The person you’re with asking how you feel about something shouldn’t seem like a big deal. But it strikes me here and now that no one has ever really asked me this.
This is new for me. He doesn’t jump to tell me whether I should or shouldn’t be happy about something. He just asks me how I feel. Like what’s going on inside my head—inside my heart—is worthy of his notice and respect.
And I think I love him even more for that.
“Yeah,” I whisper, going all mushy as I stare at him. “I think I am.”
A soft smile touches Jasper’s lips, still glistening with my lip gloss from the sloppy, happy welcome-home kisses I planted on him. His dimples peek out from behind his stubble, and I almost swoon on the spot.
The way he’s looking at me right now makes my cheeks heat despite the chilly air. Unable to withstand the saccharine sweetness of the moment, I drop my face into his chest. I suck in his signature scent and nuzzle against him as he wraps his arms around me.
We sit like this until we cars roll down the driveway. I turn my head at the lights that crop up as they draw near. The vehicle in front is a pearl white Audi sedan, and behind it is a massive silver truck with chunky winter tires and a loud engine.
The Audi screeches to a halt at the top of the roundabout driveway, and a tiny blonde woman flies out of the driver’s side with her finger pointed at the truck, keychain jangling beneath her hand. She has her keys shoved between her fingers like claws. Like she’s ready for a fight.
“Are you fucking insane?” she yells.
Jasper sits up tall beneath me, clutching me protectively against his chest. I can feel every limb go taut, like he’s ready to spring into action. After cutting the engine, a handsome, dark-haired man hops out of the huge, loud truck. And not regular handsome, the kind that would turn heads when he walks down the street.
The patio lights illuminate the grin on his face, and when Jasper catches sight of him, his body relaxes.
“Easy, Tink,” the man says good-naturedly but a little teasing. “You’re gonna pop a blood vessel stomping around like that.”
“Tink?” she shouts, pulling up about six feet from him, not at all affected by his good looks.
He waves a hand over her casually. “Yeah. You’ve got this whole angry little Tinkerbell vibe happening. I dig it.” His eyes rake over her body appreciatively but not lewdly.
