Page 26 of The Way We Touch
“Don’t say that,” she whispers, lifting her hands as if she’ll say a prayer to ward it away.
“My point is, you’ve got to do what you love, and we love the game.”
“Trust me. I know.”
“You can’t control who you love or what happens. Saying you only date golfers is silly.”
“Maybe, but if I don’t date football players, I’m not at risk of falling in love with one.”
Our eyes meet, and the air grows quiet and still. My stomach tightens, and somehow I’ve gotten close enough to touch her again. She’s standing in front of me in that short skirt and tight shirt, and her soft breasts rise quickly with her breath.
It’s been a while since I’ve been around a woman so open and vibrant and full of life. Someone who likes to play and dance and experiment with hot peppers.
A woman who has no business settling down with a man who plays golf.
Fuck that.
My hands are at my sides, and I tighten them into fists, exhaling a breath and taking a step back. What’s crazy is me talking to her this way, thinking about her this way.
As previously noted, Dylan is my best friend’s little sister. She’s completely off-limits, and even if she weren’t, she lives here in this tiny coastal community, and I’m headed back to the East Coast in a few weeks.
One month, and I’ll be a thousand miles away.
Clearing my throat, I fix my eyes on the floor and not on her sexy little body or her pretty eyes or her long hair I want to thread around my fingers.
“I’d better try and get some sleep if I’m going to help your brother tomorrow.” My hand instinctively goes to my stomach like it does when I’m hungry.
“You’d better.” She nods, slipping off her shoes at the door and walking to the hall. “If there’s anything you need in the night, just make yourself at home and get it.”
Her toenails are painted red, and fuck if my mind doesn’t fill with images of what I might need in the night. What I want to get. Her soft curves pressing against my hard angles, her silky hair falling around us in a curtain as our bodies move together.
“Thanks, I’m good.”
That’s a fucking lie. I’m very, very bad, but at least I know what’s right.
I’m here for a break and to get my head on straight, not to create more problems than I already have—or give my giant of a best friend a reason to kick my ass.
6
Dylan
Iam not obsessed with Logan Murphy. He’s a football player.
Not to mention, I almost killed him with a ghost pepper the first time we ever met.
Yet all night, I tossed and turned, thinking of his strong hand gripping the front of his shirt, fingers digging into his stomach as if to keep them from digging into me.
I failed at blocking out the heat in his dark blue eyes as he towered over me, telling me I couldn’t control who I fell for and I was crazy to think I could.
He didn’t need to tell me. My hormones were screaming it in my ears.
He’s not like the other jocks who hang around my brothers. He’s smart and thoughtful. He notices when I need help and gives it to me.
To be honest, he got me when he picked up Kimmie Joy without hesitation. When his large hand rubbed her small back as she buried her face in his neck.
My niece has never taken to a stranger that way, and I can only guess she did it because they’re both hot pepper survivors.
Riding my bike to Jack’s house this morning, I glance out over the bay as the sun slowly rises in the east. A group of pelicans glide in a V formation over the water, and a hazy mist in the distance is colored pink and yellow and bright blue.