Page 140 of Unmanageable

“Well, I do!” She shoves my chest with both hands, hard enough that I actually have to take a step back to keep my balance. “Because that’s who I am! We couldn’t even live in a van for two months without fighting about the hotels and the radio station! How are we supposed to do this in real life?”

“Good.”

“What do you mean, good?”

“I want to fight with you,” I say, my hands reaching up to catch her face before she can step away again. “I want to fight with you about the hotels. I want to fight with you about the music in the kitchen. I want to argue about the cap space and the groceries and the way you leave your shoes right in front of the door so I trip over them in the dark. I want to fight with you for sixty years, Scottie-girl.”

She goes completely still under my hands. Her breath catches in her throat, a little hiccuping sound that she tries to swallow.

“I don’t want easy,” I say. “I’ve never wanted easy with you.”

“It’s going to be a nightmare,” she whispers. Her eyelashes are wet. “You’re stubborn. You’re the most stubborn man in the entire world.”

“I know,” I say, my head dropping down until my forehead is resting against hers. “And you’re a pain in the ass most of the time.”

“I am,” she says, her voice thick. “I really am.”

I don’t wait for her to cite another clause. I don’t wait for her to tell me about the league bylaws or the agent certification board. I close the last inch between us, my mouth finding hers.

Her hands slide up my arms, her fingers bunching the fabric of my sweatshirt at the shoulders, pulling me down until there’s no space left between us at all. The cards are trapped between our chests, the stiff paper corners poking through the cotton, but neither of us cares.

When I pull back, her eyes are still closed, her nose a little red where it bumped against mine. She stays quiet for a long second, her fingers still holding onto my wrists, her breathing starting to level out.

But then she pulls her head back just an inch, her eyes opening, that familiar, sharp focus cutting right back through the soft look she just had on her face.

“I’m not a sweet girl, Cash,” she says. “I don’t do the whole domestic, gentle thing. I’m difficult. I’m precise. I will say things that cut you straight to the bone when I’m tired, and I will absolutely hurt your feelings. You’re going to look at me six months from now and regret ever wanting to be with a woman like me.”

My thumbs trace the edge of her jaw. “Scottie, I spent two months in an orange box with a broken window while you re-organized my entire professional existence using a single highlighter. I’ve seen you when you haven’t slept in forty-eight hours and you’ve seen me crying in a hospital. You think your bad attitude scares me?”

“See?” she mutters, though her hands are still hooked into my collar. “We’re literally doing it right now. We’re standing here arguing about whether I’m too mean to love.”

A small, genuine laugh spills out of me.

“Yeah,” I say. “We are. And every single second we do it, I just love you more.”

She lets out a sharp, breathless sound—halfway between a scoff and a sob—and her head drops forward, her forehead thudding right against the center of my chest, exactly where it belonged the whole time.

Her shoulders shake, just once, before she starts to laugh too. The sound is small and wet against my shirt.

“You’re a moron, Finny,” she mumbles into my sweatshirt, her arms wrapping around my waist now.

“Probably,” I say, wrapping my arms all the way around her, holding her so tight her boots almost leave the ground. “But I’m your moron. Even if you’re not my agent anymore.”

“Don’t remind me,” she sighs, her face still hidden against my chest. “Dean is going to ruin your index bonuses. I’m going to have to text him just to make sure he doesn’t let them change the tier structure on the shutout multipliers.”

“Whatever you want, Scottie-girl,” I murmur, kissing the top of her head where her hair is cold from the wind. “Whatever you want.”

40

Finny

3:27 PM

Me: you know you’re my favorite person, right?

Scottie-girl: You need more hobbies.

***