30. CADE
CHAPTER 30
CADE
I ’ve been trying my best during most of this damn flight to keep my eyes on the cards, and not on Hope.
However, it’s not my fault that I keep losing or that she stands just farther up the aisle, chatting up with Larry Socci without realizing just how freaking hot she is and how much attention she’s getting from my teammates. They respect her enough that they’ll never do or say anything untoward—or rather, they know she’d chop off their limbs—but clearly they still have eyes.
Yeah, I know I’m being a hypocrite. I too am transfixed by the slope of her lower back turning into a spectacularly round butt that would fit perfectly in my hands. And on my lap.
But—and this is the big difference—I’m at least trying not to stare. Miller two rows above me is fully jaw slacked, his face red because of who knows what he’s thinking. Actually, I do know—I’m thinking it too—and it makes me want to commit teammatecide.
“Dude, it’s your turn.”
I make a gargantuan effort to turn away from Miller’s slobbering face. Lucky motions at the Uno card on top of the pile and I check my deck looking for ones or yellows.
My traitorous eyes peek from above the fan of cards in my hands, right in time for Hope to run her fingers down her long hair. Most of it falls behind her but a strand escapes to caress her cheek, and I can’t believe I wish I could be her hair right now.
Lucky clears his throat.
I throw my last yellow card at the pile. Logan Kim tosses a red one with the same number and mutters, “You’re being too obvious, you knucklehead.”
“Huh?”
“He means that if you keep staring at her the whole team will realize you have a giant torch for our only female trainer.”
Kim nods at Lucky. “That.”
I clear my throat. “Be quiet, you two.”
“Then be less obvious,” advises Kim.
I grumble an incoherent string of sounds and lower my face. Focusing on the game is still much harder than it should be, like I had a dormant Hope Garcia radar that can now pick up her presence no matter where she is. It figuratively beeps as she walks down my aisle, leaving a trail of vanilla that warms up my body from the inside.
“So…” I stretch out the word until it’s almost uncomfortable.
Kim ignores me, though. “Uno.” He puts a card on the pile and has one left in his hand.
“Kim.” He finally lifts his eyes to me. “You never told me how your date with you know who went.”
Dude cocks an eyebrow. “You know exactly how it went.”
“Sure, from her side.” I lift a shoulder. “But I’m also interested in knowing your side of it.”
“If you’re worried I may want to snatch your girl, don’t. I’m not into her.”
I don’t deny for a second that that’s my concern. Hell, I don’t deny anything anymore. Lucky read me like an open book the night of Hope and Kim’s date, and the latter is too sharp for me to even pretend.
“Why not?” I ask, more confused than annoyed. I didn’t understand almost two months ago how guys can possibly not be attracted to her, and I still don’t get it today.
“Because I’m not in the business of taking what’s not mine.”
“Then why did you agree to date her in the first place?”
Lucky nudges me again. I take one look at the card on top and already know I’ve lost.
Sighing, I say, “Pass.”
“I win.” Kim dumps his last card on the airplane table and stretches back, hands behind his head as he looks down his nose at me. “And the answer to that is simple. I was bored and I wanted to see your reaction.”
“Wow, we’ll never get along, will we?”
He offers a feral grin. “Probably not.”
Lucky clicks his tongue. “You’re such a catcher.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’re all sneaky like that. Makes me glad I’m not a pitcher.”
“Lucky you,” I deadpan at the Boricua. I push myself up to stand and stretch my back. “Anyway, I’m gonna go get a snack. Want something, you jerks?”
Kim tilts his head and gives me a look like he thinks the snack I’m talking about is Hope. And first, she’s not a snack—she’s the whole damn meal. Second, the snack is just an excuse to see her.
“Offer rescinded to you,” I say to him, glaring.
Meanwhile, Lucky smacks his lips. “I’m a little thirsty, not gonna lie. Thirsty for some ac?—”
“You also can go get your snacks yourself.”
After stepping out of my seat, I walk a step in the opposite direction and smack the back of Miller’s head.
“Hey! What the hell was that for, Cowboy?”
“You know exactly why, you stinking perv.”
He blinks for a moment until it finally clicks. His expression turns sheepish. “Sorry.”
I’d tell him to apologize to her, but learning that she has colleagues who leer at her would probably make her uncomfortable and I don’t want that. Instead, I say, “Just don’t do it again.” Huffing, I swivel around and trudge down the aisle to the service area.
I push the curtain aside with my forearm and stop. Hope is right in front of me, leaning back on the service counter as she glares at her phone screen so fiercely that it’s a wonder it doesn’t crack.
“Everything okay, darlin’?”
“No,” she responds right away, before even meeting my eye. “Look at this bullshit.” She flips her phone so I can see the screen.
At first I’m not sure what I’m seeing, but at second I start making out words from what looks like a digital invitation. I step into the enclosed area, letting the curtain close behind me, and take the phone from her hand. And yeah, I enjoy the feel of her hand under mine, however brief the touch lasts.
I read aloud in my most bored drawl. “You are cordially invited to the engagement party of Amy McFadden and Dawson Clark, to be celebrated at blah blah on…” I look closer. “Oh, this is in less than a month. Didn’t you say they started dating just last November?”
“Turned out it was since way longer,” she spits out with annoyance.
The plane tilts a little and I have to spread my feet wider to not pitch. Just in case, I place a hand on the cabinet above her. “You said you don’t have feelings for him anymore, so why are you gnashing your teeth?” I ask, returning her phone.
“Because…” As she pockets it, she draws in a sharp breath. “At the rate I’m going, there’s no way I’ll find a boyfriend for Friendsgiving, forget within a month.”
I close my mouth. Open it again. Close once more.
Boyfriend.
She wants a boyfriend.
The thing I’ve never really been.
I’ve dated. I’ve fooled around. And the only time I thought using the boyfriend label was fine, it lead to one of the most prominent episodes in my collection of childhood trauma. I don’t need to get a psychology degree to know that it’s the main reason why I never wanted to try again.
Except I really don’t think someone like Hope, after everything she’s gone through, would be satisfied with just being a date. She wants to be a girlfriend. Probably a wife after that. How the hell can I turn myself into boyfriend or husband material when I’m simply not?
“What if…” I trail off, trying to wet my suddenly dry mouth. “What if you keep me as your backup plan? You know, in case you don’t find the boyfriend you’re looking for in time.”
“Oh.” She blinks fast. This close I notice she has long eyelashes. “Um, would that be an option?”
“Sure.” I shrug, acting much cooler than I feel, considering I’m so hot under the collar. “My pride as your dating coach is on the line. I won’t have you show up empty?—”
The word handed vanishes in thin air, replaced by the yelp that comes from her. The plane tilts forward, sharp enough that Hope loses the battle. She goes from leaning against the counter to crashing against my chest. My arms close around her and I’ve never been happier that I don’t have actual chicken legs, because I’m able to keep our balance and not send us crashing through the curtain and to the middle of the aisle. Overhead, the beep that indicates we should be at our seats with our seatbelts fastened comes on.
But we stay put. Hope, probably because she’s trapped in my arms. Me, because there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.
“You okay?” I whisper, looking down at the top of her head.
But that’s also when she tilts her head back. And our noses brush.
Her eyes widen and I can feel mine doing the same. Wiggling, she wedges her hands between us and pushes me away. “Yeah, thanks. You?” And steps back against the counter again, putting as much distance as the space physically allows her.
Um.
Excuse me but…
Ouch.
I run a hand through my hair. “Yeah, I’m good. We should probably take our seats, though.”
“Right.”
“Oh, wait. I was supposed to come in for a snack.”
“Right,” she repeats, turning her back to rummage in the cabinets. These charter planes aren’t like a regular commercial one, so they’re stocked with all sorts of nutritious and flavorless snacks fit for professional athletes. She hands me over an insipid peanut butter bar that tastes just as meh on the ground as it does on the air. “Here you go. Drinks are in the bottom cabinets.”
“Thanks.” I watch her disappear behind the curtains without meeting my eyes. Lifting an arm, I sniff my clean armpit. “Okay, I guess I don’t stink. Then what’s her deal?”
Did an accidental hug not fueled by pity make her so deeply uncomfortable?
Because if so, this whole girlfriending her thing might be a lot harder than I even imagined.