Page 21 of Tripped Up

Gallagher rolls his eyes. “Seriously, Whitney. I’m not into her.”

Automatically, my hackles go up. “Why not? She’s fucking hot.”

I’d have to be blind not to see that.

“Just not my type.” He shrugs. “All I want to do is check in on her so Viv doesn’t rip my head off. That’s all this is.”

Our conversation cut off by Elsy rolling down the window.

“Are you two going to gossip all day, or can we get going?”

“Yes, Your Highness,” I tease, and she scowls as she rolls the window back up.

“Oh. So it’s like that,” Gallagher says with a knowing grin.

“Like what?”

“You have a thing for her.”

My mouth drops open. “What?”

He laughs. “Yeah. You’re totally into her.” He ducks into the back seat.

As I round the car, I wonder if that’s true. No. It can’t be. Just because we hooked up all those years ago doesn’t mean I want to do it again.

Except… I kind of do. She’s hot as fuck. She’s bigger than she was thirteen years ago, but I happen to like her curves. I like a woman with some meat on her bones.

But it doesn’t mean I’m into her. She’s prickly. I don’t want to be stabbed in the kidney—or anywhere else, for that matter. If I have feelings…

No. I don’t have feelings for her. That’s ridiculous.

As I slide into the driver’s seat, I’m treated to the subtle floral scent of her perfume. Jasmine, I think. Normally, perfume makes me sneeze, but something about the light wisp of her scent makes my pulse throb.

Elsy’s already buckled in, so I reach over and turn the A/C up high for her. She’s clutching a plastic airsick bag.

“Already nauseous?”

“Around you? Always,” she mutters, looking out the window.

Gallagher stifles a snicker.

The guys are already seated when we arrive. A few of the other Dragons players have joined in, too. Henry has commandeered a small table for four next to the group, and it’s there that Elsy goes, so I amble after her.

I feel awkward and uncoordinated without my skates. Off-kilter. Like I’m missing a limb.

She takes the seat across from Henry, and I slide in beside her. She’s not a small woman, so our thighs touch on the sticky booth material, and it sends my stomach on a roller coaster.

I must be hungry. That’s it.

Tina, the waitress usually assigned to our section, beelines over to us. She’s good at keeping the fans away from us and letting us relax after a game.

“Hey, sugar,” she says, cocking her hip. “What can I get you?”

“Water, please,” I request. “Elizabeth, you drinking?”

“Around you? Always,” she mutters again.

My blood rushes south at the annoyance on her face, my pulse throbbing. Fuck, her petulant quips get me going like nothing else.