Chapter 3 #4
I exhaled a soft snort. “Now if that doesn’t sound like a line.”
“It isn’t.” His voice went flat, gaze sliding away. “I just don’t like big events like this.”
I blinked. “You play in stadiums in front of thousands all the time.”
“Arenas,” he corrected. It wasn’t harsh, more as if he was grateful to deflect the conversation. “Stadium’s football. Or baseball.”
“Okay,” I said, “noted. Arena.” I held up a hand. “But my point stands: Big events are literally your job.”
His attention slid toward the bay as it faded into the evening, lights coming on like specks of glitter. “Yeah. But games aren’t… social.”
Something soft slid behind my ribs, and that—no. Not what this was.
“You get anxious?” I asked, and regretted the blunt words as soon as they were out.
His gaze shifted back to me, mouth tugging into an offended curve. “I do not.”
Aww.
“Okay.” I nodded like yes, honey—sure. “But you don’t love mingling, networking, charming people. That sort of thing.”
He scoffed. “The sort of thing that paid your bills, you mean?”
Ouch. It landed right where he’d probably aimed, somewhere at the base of my spine. Fair, though.
“Pretty much,” I said.
His eyes narrowed as if he expected me to defend myself. When I didn’t, he seemed to deflate, focus slipping away again, lips tight and shoulders braced even in a suit that looked like it had been poured over him. “Sorry.”
“No,” I said. “It was fair.”
Surprise ghosted across his features. He didn’t immediately reply, so I let the silence hang briefly before I nodded toward the wall of windows that cut the view into rectangles.
“Is this privacy glass?”
“As long as I keep the lights off.” A small crease settled between his brows. “Why?”
“Because it means I can do this,” I said, and moved close enough to touch him—nothing much, just my fingertips on his elbow, light through the fabric.
He went very still, eyes on me.
“Social events like that…” I kept my voice easy and steady, the way I coached kids through finding pants that fit right. “People are there to judge you. To form snapshot impressions of you that they’ll take home with them.”
“You are not helping,” he muttered.
“The suit is, though,” I said, holding his gaze.
“I’m not saying it’s a good thing. But clothes shape how people see you.
You’ll move differently in this than in something that doesn’t flatter you.
” I let my hand slide down his arm, brushed my fingers over his palm.
“You don’t even have to open your mouth to impress them.
It’s a shortcut to looking like you belong. ”
Matt looked at me like the rest of the room had gone quiet. For a hot beat, the apartment felt too small.
“Is that why you do it?” he asked.
The question slid right under my skin and found bone.
Not the first time he’d done that, simple words that made me feel like I’d been stripped of a layer or two.
He kept reaching past the surface, touched something I hadn’t planned to offer, and it was…
disconcerting. And wildly, dizzyingly attractive.
“So I can help people belong, you mean?” I kept it light in an attempt to find my footing.
“That, yes.” Matt’s head tilted. “And so you feel like you belong, maybe.”
Well, fucking hell.
I stepped on the instinctive need to joke my way out of this. How honest did I want to be here, with him? Someone whose secret I now carried even though it had never been meant for me?
Offering up my own sob story wouldn’t fix a thing. But maybe I could hand him a sliver.
“I didn’t have an easy time growing up.” I looked away, at the sparkle of lights below.
“Talking fast and dressing the right way was a shortcut to… social acceptance, I guess. Kept people from looking too closely.” I shrugged one shoulder.
“With a bit of time and effort, you can make an eight-dollar thrifted pair of jeans read more like ‘rich parents’ than ‘dumpster find.’”
Matt’s attention felt like an anchor, something that could steady and drag me down all at once. “Sounds tough,” he said, not pity but matter-of-fact, and for some reason, it sent heat crawling into my cheeks.
Okay, enough of this. Time to get a grip.
“It was what it was.” With that, I reached out to adjust his tie, angling myself closer—slowly, plenty of time for him to pull back if he wanted. He didn’t move. My fingers skimmed his throat as I tightened the knot just slightly.
His pulse jumped under my touch.
“You all right there?” I asked, voice pitched unintentionally low, the shade of a confession.
“Stellar,” he said flatly.
“You sure?” I kept my hand curled against his throat, knuckles light on his skin. “Just seems like your heart is going a little fast for an athlete at rest.”
“Very funny.”
“Thank you. I did miss my calling as a standup comedian.”
He exhaled, breath warm and minty, eyes half-lidded. “You gonna kiss me or what?”
The idea twisted hot and sharp through me. I let my focus drop to his mouth. “Yeah. Just not right now.”
“And why the fuck not?” He sounded irritated, an edge to his voice that he probably used on the ice when the game wasn’t going his way.
But underneath, I caught the faintest shade of uncertainty, as if a part of him still wondered about my play.
Or, maybe, like he’d been in the closet for half his life and it had rewired him, turned “women want you” into background noise and “a man wants you” into something that felt like a punchline in the making.
“Because,” I said, quiet, “I want to. But I don’t want to start something when you’re leaving in, what, half an hour?”
His chest rose on a breath, the suit beautiful on him even as evening drained the light from the room. “More like fifteen minutes. Car will be here at six thirty.”
So. He’d invited me here, yes, but on a tight schedule. Self-protection? A test? A dare?
I let my hand fall from his throat to his wrist. “If we do this,” I said, “I don’t want just fifteen minutes. I don’t want to kiss on a deadline.”
His throat moved. Then he nodded. “Okay.”
“Also…” I hesitated, heart beating hard behind my ribs. This might be the part where he kicked me out—but if so, it would be for the best. “I’m not making amends with my body. I owe you. But not here. Not in this context.”
He watched me for a moment that echoed somewhere low. “Agreed,” he said then. “No apology. But no pity either.”
“I don’t pity you,” I told him. “It’s tough, having to hide like that, and I’m sorry it’s your reality. That’s just human empathy, though. Not pity.”
“Good.” He twisted his hand, and suddenly it was his fingers on my wrist, circling it in a light hold. “So,” he said, voice certain now, gone dark in a way that made my breath catch. “When?”