Chapter Nine
Nine
Michelle
I pay for tacos.
Oh, Tristan tries, all right.
“I lost the bet,” I remind him as he scowls at me. “I don’t even know how you can look at me like that when there are free tacos sitting in front of you.”
He frowns harder, chomping into a birria taco and managing to still look upset while he chews.
It makes me laugh. My own shrimp tacos are delicious, and I’m in a great mood.
The best mood I’ve been in for a very, very long time, as a matter of fact.
The place is a tiny hole-in-the-wall in a strip mall I would have driven past without a second thought, as it is devoid of any kind of signage out front.
The interior is made up of cracked linoleum on the floor and long metal tables lined with mismatched stools.
Rolls of paper towels sit on the ends of each table, along with dripping buckets of ice stuffed with plastic squeeze bottles full of an assortment of hot sauces.
Brightly colored punched paper flags hang from the ceiling titles, making the whole place feel festive in spite of the spartan finishes.
They don’t need to be fancy—the food is fantastic.
“I think your lesson really worked,” I tell him when I’ve finally come up for a breath after inhaling a taco.
Tristan’s managed to stop frowning, polishing off his tacos and rice and beans in record time.
“Of course it worked. I’m the king of chill.”
“Which is why you got so worked up about me paying for the tacos, huh?”
A sly grin tugs at the corners of his mouth, the kind of mischievous look in his eyes that screams he’s about to say something we might both regret.
“Do not make a joke about eating taco,” I warn him.
He gasps and clutches at imaginary pearls. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Please,” I say, dipping a tortilla chip into our shared container of queso. “I’m sure it was on the tip of your tongue.”
“Are you telling me you’re thinking about having your taco on the tip of my tongue?” He leans forward, the impish look turning to something hot that leaves me at a loss for words.
I jab my queso-covered chip into his face just to get him to stop talking. Cheese starts to drip onto his chin, until he finally opens his mouth.
A laugh bursts out of me as I shove the chip into his mouth, then dies as my fingers brush over his bottom lip. Heat blossoms deep within me.
I shouldn’t be staring at his mouth; I definitely shouldn’t be thinking about seeing what would happen if I touch his lips on purpose.
I drag my gaze away from his too-kissable lips, hoping that will alleviate the urgent need I have to touch him again.
But it only gets worse when I make myself look into his eyes.
The need I feel burning through me, tightening every muscle in my body, is reflected in what I see there.
My chair whines as it scrapes against the floor, away from him.
I need distance.
I’m moving before I let my body do anything I’ll regret, because kissing Tristan Gold would be a recipe for disaster.
Mark Adely is already hell-bent on finding something wrong with my performance—that’s the only reason he’s micromanaging me after the disaster with the last owners—and if I acted on this thing between me and Tristan, if I slept with a player…
Well, I wouldn’t be sleeping on the couch in my office anymore, because I’m positive I’d have to find a new job if Mark found out I crossed that ethically questionable line.
A high-pitched laugh squeaks out of me, because no way am I thinking about sleeping with Tristan. I’m definitely not thinking about sleeping with Tristan.
What we’d do wouldn’t be anywhere near sleeping.
I rub at my eyes like I can scrub away the thought.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, arching an eyebrow at me as I struggle to get myself under control.
“Leg cramp.” I blurt the first lie I think of.
I’m not about to tell him I was a half second away from kissing him on his lips.
Tristan Gold is relentless.
He’s asked me out several times since I stepped foot in the Aces offices, and I’ve turned him down just as many, infinitely preferring to err on the side of friends than start casually hooking up with a player I work with.
Besides, I think if I let him, Tristan Gold could break my heart.
What would be casual for him wouldn’t be for me.
I’ve never been the type to date around—I’m too serious, all-in too quickly.
What would be fun for a few nights would turn into hurt, because Tristan’s famous for giving interviews in which he says he’s not interested in anything but a good time.
He’s never been seen with the same woman more than twice.
Tristan Gold breaking my heart isn’t just a possibility—it’s a probability.
I stare at him, trying to control the same heart that’s now racing against my rib cage, panic replacing the wave of lust.
Great. Because that’s what I wanted, tacos with a side of anxiety.
Hold the pico de gallo, I’m eating mine with pure stomach acid.
Yum.
“What’s wrong?” he asks again, pretending like nothing just happened between us. “Full already?”
My basket of shrimp tacos is only half eaten, but he’s right. I’ve lost my appetite.
“Tired,” I say, pushing the food across the table. “I think all the late nights are catching up to me.”
“You sure that’s all it is?” he asks, and it would be too easy to believe that he really does care, that hooking up with him wouldn’t just be one-sided.
“Yeah.” I nod, swallowing past a lump in my throat.
“We should have eaten before you took a sledgehammer to a fake office,” he continues. “Now you’re too tired for tacos? What a fucking travesty.”
Shaking his head, he picks up one of my tacos and stuffs it in his mouth in one bite.
I’m pretty sure he did it just to make me laugh, and I do, because Tristan may not be serious boyfriend material, but he’s a good guy. A good friend.
“I’m glad we did this.”
“Me too, Oxford.” He reaches out his hand, and I start to freeze, thinking he’s going to grab mine.
He goes for a chip instead, and I’m caught between disappointment and relief.
A confusing place to be.
“I’m gonna head home and take a nap. Thanks for today,” I tell him, the words rushing out of me.
The air conditioner overhead kicks on, sending the paper flags waving and my hair flying into my eyes.
I blink, but before I can brush it away, his hand’s there, gently tugging the wayward lock out of my eyes and behind my ears.
My brain stops computing completely. System failure. I stare at him, want warring with my need to keep this professional. Friendly.
“You sure? I was thinking we could go for ice cream, or I could pretend to be Paul Hollywood and bake you cookies—”
“Pretend to be Paul Hollywood?” I interrupt, thrown.
“Oh yeah, if you’re into the whole handshake thing and long, awkward, blue-eyed eye contact.”
“Your eyes are hazel,” I tell him, trying not to laugh.
“I’m so glad you noticed.” He flutters his lashes at me outrageously. “So you, me, cookies warm from the oven?”
“You’re a good friend,” I interrupt him, putting as much emphasis on the word as I can manage. “But I need a nap.”
And Tristan needs to stay just my friend. I can’t complicate my already stressful work situation with an office romance, even if he isn’t technically in my office.
Right?
I force a smile, feeling anything but happy. My chest tightens with every breath, and I stand up, grabbing my purse. “I’ll make sure to tell the guys what a good job you did over doughnuts on Friday. See you at the debrief.”
A little wave punctuates my statement, and I turn on my heel before he can talk me into staying longer.
I don’t look back at him. Nope. I keep my eyes ahead, get in my car, and drive home in stupid LA traffic, and then I throw myself onto my couch and lie there like an idiot starfish.
Starfish because I’ve flopped belly down with an arm hanging off the end of the couch and a leg draped over the side.
Idiot because I let down my guard around Tristan Gold for all of two hours today, and it was fun and easy and I laughed more than I have in months.
Idiot because I wanted to kiss him.
It felt like a date—I wanted it to be a date—not some bet I lost because I have a stick up my ass, according to, well, everyone.
I do not have time for feelings, especially not with the goalie of the team I work for.
I groan into the pillow, exhausted and annoyed with myself.
Bad, bad starfish.