Beautiful Player
Page 111

“I really should shower . . .” she said, looking past me and down the street that led, eventually, to her building.
“You can shower at my place . . .” I didn’t care how I sounded. I wasn’t letting her go. I’d missed her. Nights had been almost unbearable, but strangely, mornings had been the worst. I missed her breathless conversation and how it would eventually fall away into the synchronized rhythm of our feet on pavement.
“And borrow some clean clothes?” she asked, wearing a teasing grin.
I nodded without hesitation. “Yes.”
Her smile faded when she saw I was serious.
“Come over, Hanna. Just for lunch, I promise.”
Lifting her hand to her forehead to block out the sun, she studied my face for a beat longer. “You sure?”
Instead of answering, I tilted my head, turning to walk. She fell into step beside me, and every time our fingers accidentally brushed, I wanted to pull her hand into mine and then pull her to me, pressing her against the nearest tree.
She’d been her old, playful self for those short, euphoric moments, but quiet Hanna reappeared as we walked the dozen or so blocks back to my building. I held the door for her as we stepped inside, slipped past her to push the up button for the elevator, and then stood close enough to feel the press of her arm along mine as we waited. At least three times I could hear her suck in a breath, start to speak, but then she would look at her shoes, at her fingernails, at the doors to the elevator. Anywhere but at my face.
Upstairs, my wide-open kitchen seemed to shrink under the tension between us, caused by the residue from the horrible conversation on Tuesday night, the hundreds of unspoken things from today, the simmering force that was always there. I handed her a blue Powerade because it was her favorite, and poured myself a glass of water, turning to watch her lips, her throat, her hand around the bottle as she took a deep drink.
You’re so f**king beautiful, I didn’t say.
I love you so much, I didn’t say.
When she put the bottle down on the counter, her expression was full of all the things she wasn’t saying, either. I could tell they were there, but had no idea what those things might be.
As we rehydrated in silence, I couldn’t help but try to covertly check her out. But the secrecy was wasted. I could see her lips curl into a knowing smile when my attention moved over her face, to her chin, and down to the still-glistening skin of her chest, the hint of her br**sts visible beneath her skimpy-ass sports bra—fuck. I’d so far managed to avoid looking directly at her chest, and now it pulled a familiar ache through me. Her chest was my happy place, and I wanted to sit down and press my face there.
I groaned, rubbing my eyes. It had been a terrible idea inviting her up here. I wanted to undress her, still sweaty, and feel the slide of her on top of me.
Just as I was pointing over my shoulder to the bathroom and asked, “Do you want the first shower?” Hanna tilted her head and grinned, asking, “Were you just looking at my chest?”
And because of the ease, the comfort, the f**king intimacy of the question, anger flared in my blood. “Hanna, don’t,” I bit out. “Don’t be the girl who plays head games. Barely a week ago you basically told me to get lost.” I didn’t expect it to come out like that, and in the quiet kitchen, my angry tone bounced around and surrounded us.
She blanched, looking devastated. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.
“Fuck,” I groaned, squeezing my eyes closed. “Don’t be sorry just don’t . . .” I opened my eyes to look at her. “Don’t play games with me.”
“I’m not trying to,” she said, quiet urgency making her voice thin and hoarse. “I’m sorry I disappeared last week. I’m sorry I acted so horribly. I thought . . .”
I pulled out a kitchen stool, sinking down onto it. Running a half marathon didn’t exhaust me as much as all of this did. My love for her was a heavy, pulsing, living thing, and it made me feel crazy, and anxious, and famished. I hated seeing her stressed and scared. I hated seeing her upset at my anger, but even worse was the knowledge that she had the power to break my heart and had very little experience being careful about it. I was completely at her fumbling, inexperienced mercy.
“I miss you,” she said.
My chest tightened. “I miss you so much, Hanna. You have no idea. But I heard what you said on Tuesday. If you don’t want this, then we have to find a way to be friends again. Asking me if I’m checking out your chest doesn’t help us move past all of this.”