Page 103 of Bad Run

Just got out of the shower. Are you up?

I stare at the screen with a smile, watching the three dots dance. His message makes me laugh. I knew he wouldn’t be able to help himself.

Lance: I am now.

Lance: Can I call you?

Give me ten.

I toss my phone onto the bed and rush through my nightly skincare routine. Serums and lotions on the face and body oil everywhere else. Then I quickly rub in a curl cream, brush it through my locks, and blow-dry my hair with the diffuser. Normally my hair process takes twenty minutes, but five will have to do.

Ten minutes on the dot, my phone rings. I slip on my pajamas and climb into bed, leaning against the headboard. I take a deep breath, then accept the call. “Hey.”

“Hey.” Lance’s gravelly voice makes my stomach flip, and my brain scratches like an old record player.

A silence falls between us, heavy and awkward, so I blurt out the first thing that comes to mind. “Sorry about the loss tonight.”

The Evaders lost to the New York Hawks 5–3. It must sting, seeing as they beat the Hawks in the World Series.

“It’s still early in the season, but losses happen. Tonight just wasn’t our night.” Lance sighs.

“I guess you can’t win them all.” I bite back a groan. I sound like such a dork. He doesn’t want to talk about losing.

Lance chuckles. “Gwen?”

“Yeah?”

“I didn’t call to talk about the game.” There’s amusement in his deep voice.

“You didn’t?”

“No.”

“Why did you call?” I ask, voice breathy and soft.

“Because I wanted to hear your voice before bed. Kind of got used to hearing it this last week.”

His admission sends the butterflies in my stomach soaring. “You did?”

“Yeah, I did. It’d be better if I could see your face.” I look down at my PJs. Ratty old NY Public Library T-shirt that used to belong to my ex, and sleep shorts. “Please?”

“Okay,” I relent, slipping under the covers. “But only my face. Don’t go getting any ideas.”

Lance barks a laugh. The rough sound skitters across my skin, giving me goosebumps like the caress of his warm fingers brushing my skin would. “Got it. Only your face.”

The video request pops up, and I switch over.

Oh no. What have I done? I should have said no.

My mouth waters, and the bundle of nerves between my legs pulses with desire at the mere sight of Lance.

He’s lying in bed, bare-chested, on a pile of white, fluffy pillows, looking like a damn magazine ad.

Why does he have to be so freaking hot?

Like, superhero hot. All muscly and tasty.

Lance clears his throat, and my eyes jump from his broad, muscular chest to his blue eyes that dance with mirth.