Chapter 14 #2
But the reason for my sudden cold feet: Dylan Donovan standing shirtless, in only a pair of loose flannel pajama pants that hang so low on his waist, I can see that V-shaped muscle that goes down to his …
nope. Worst of all, he’s wearing glasses.
Black brow line framed and devastating. What kind of sick optometrist would approve of this?
Dylan leans against the archway watching TV while holding a cereal bowl in one hand and a spoon in the other.
His jaw works slowly, each bite stealing my attention.
The light from the living room casts a bright glow over his tan skin.
He’s all hard muscles and smooth skin. I imagine how his body would feel under my palms. Warm, hard, soft—
“You got a visitor, D,” Kian says, scattering my thoughts before he sends a stray golf ball past my feet. I blink, taking in the scene of two other guys playing mini golf in the hallway. They wave at me.
The interruption shifts Dylan’s focus. His eyes meet mine, and there’s a flicker of something in them that makes my stomach flip. Mischief, I decide.
One roommate rushes past me for the ball that he launched down the hall, leaving Dylan and me, with only the sports channel commentator’s voice for a distraction.
If he’s trying to make me uncomfortable, he’s nailing it.
His gaze sweeps over me, deliberate and slow, like he’s mapping every inch of me in a way that feels oddly intimate.
Though that could be the result of my mind being in the gutter last night.
I’m fully covered—mom jeans, a black long-sleeve shirt, and the blue-and-white-checkered sweater I painstakingly knit over the summer—but somehow his eyes manage to burn through the layers, searing the skin beneath. It’s unnerving. And no one unnerves me.
“Can we talk?” I finally say, breaking the silence because clearly, he’s content to just stare me into the next century. “In your room or something?”
Dylan’s still looking at me as he finishes the last bite of his cereal and drops the spoon into the bowl with an exaggerated clunk. “Not sure if I’d feel safe in there with the girl who threatened my life earlier.”
“That was a friendly joke,” I say.
“Do you tell all your friends you’d enjoy seeing them covered in dirt?”
“Fine. Let’s talk here, then.” I take a deep breath. “I accept.”
Dylan pauses, processing my words with an infuriating slowness. He deliberately moves to get the cereal box, adds more cereal, and takes a loud bite.
“Accept what?” he asks, through a mouthful of shredded wheat.
“For you to be my partner.”
He raises an amused eyebrow. “If I recall correctly, you told me you could have anyone—including your perfect ex-boyfriend, who looked more than happy to fill the role,” he says, his voice steady but his jaw tight.
“Now you want me? The sloppy footwork hockey player? I’m no one’s second choice, princess. ”
His words hang in the air, layered with a hint of challenge.
“One, Justin is my former partner. Two, you’re technically not a hockey player as of this semester. Three, you’re a good figure skater, and you know it.”
“Good?”
“Great,” I rectify.
“Great?”
I narrow my eyes to slits, refusing to let him bait me. “If you’re fishing for more compliments, you won’t get them from me. But me standing here, asking you to be my partner, should be enough.”
He tilts his head with a boyish grin. “But you really hurt my fragile ego with your little temper tantrum in Kilner’s office. I could be persuaded though.”
I scoff. “Actually, I think it’s you who should make it up to me. Did you forget about the IOU? I’m cashing it in.”
He shakes his head like I’m sorely mistaken. “That was for your friend, not you.”
“She’d use it for me.” He’s so smug right now, I wish I could just walk out.
But I need him, and he knows it too. “Kilner and Lidia want an answer. If you’re my partner, I can get you back on the ice.
You can show the sports director you aren’t messing around and get reinstated,” I say.
“So, yes or no? I think I’m getting a rash from being in this house for so long. ”
“Oh yeah? Are you allergic to hockey players or something?” he mocks.
“I’m allergic to your cocky attitude.”
“Trust me, you haven’t seen cocky yet.” Then he tilts his head. “I don’t think I like your hostility. Ask me again.”
“You’re seriously going to make me work for it? You don’t even have a choice.” I’m the one who holds his career in my hands, so why does it feel like he’s the one in control?
He blinks. “Still sound frigid to me.”
Asshole just called me frigid. “Be my partner,” I grit out.
“Nicely, Sierra.”
“Be my partner …” I swallow the thickness blocking the word. “Please.”
He stops, like he’s weighing whether to torture me some more. But he glances at my clenched fists, drops his bowl on the table, and heads straight down the dark hallway, probably to his room. I don’t dare follow.
I’m left staring at the rippling muscles on his back when he says, “I’ll see you on the ice, princess.”
The nickname grates my ears. “Asshole,” I mutter.
“Brat,” he says, and then his bedroom door closes.