Page 43 of Slapshot Bride

There’s a plea in his voice, but I don't stop. I can’t. I don’t know what I’ll do… what will come of me if I look back, and meet those eyes again.

No. I’m not ready for that.

I take the stairs two at a time.

I shut the guest room door behind me and lean against it, my hand over my mouth where his mouth was three seconds ago. I close my eyes.

I don't know what I just did.

What I know is that I just kissed the man whose life I’ve decided to stop ruining, and the only thought in my head, the one I can't get rid of, is that I want to do it again.

9

EASTON

Just for Tonight

It’s been twenty-four hours since the kiss, and Riley has practically vanished. She skipped dinner last night and never came down for breakfast this morning.

I told myself she’d missed breakfast because she slept in. Yet, the truth was there, just beneath the surface.

Regardless, she’s had a hell of a week. She’s been trending across every gossip site in the country, and those photos were clearly the final straw. She cried herself into the kind of exhaustion that only sleep can fix.

The kindest thing I can do is leave her alone.

At least, that's what I tell myself at eight in the morning.

By two in the afternoon, I’ve stopped buying my own bullshit.

Of course it’s because of the kiss. The kiss I can’t fucking stop thinking about, by the way.

She has not come down for water, or even for her morning coffee. The woman who has spent two mornings making me coffee before I'm out of bed has not made a sound.

I go up around four. My heart races the closer I get to the door.

Maybe it’s the wrong time? I should give her some space to process what happened. What should have never happened.

But even with these harrowing thoughts, my legs still move forward. The need to know she’s fine is far greater, and more punishing.

I knock once, lightly. I hear nothing, so I knock again.

No response.

The fear is immediate and stupid. She ran. She found a way.

But I’ve been home all day.

“Riley…” Her name leaves my lips in a broken plea, my fingers curling around the door knob.

I push the door open.

She's there, on the floor. At first, I heave a sigh of relief. My heart slows, and my eyes watch.

She’s sitting on the rug with her back against the foot of the bed, headphones in, the James Hadley Chase paperback open on her thigh, a notepad on her knee that she’s been writing in.

Oblivious to my presence, she keeps scribbling and I stand there, just watching.

She’s in another of my t-shirts. One I last saw in the laundry room, and some tiny knitted shorts she picked at Valentina’s. Her hair is in its usual messy bun, a few stray strands about, and she slowly but casually bobs her head to whatever she’s listening to.