Page 22 of Unforgettable Player

“That it’s my house? It’s just as much your house as it is mine. I mean, you’ve probably spent more time here over the past few years than I have.”

“Yeah, but … it’s your parents’ house.” He lowers his eyes to the book.

The need to make him feel better grabs me and tells me to stay with him.

Perching on the arm of the couch, I want to reach out and touch him, but I think better of it at the last second. “Eli? Everything alright?”

He swallows, slamming the book shut. His whole demeanor right now is like the universal signal for I don’t fucking wanna talk about it, okay?

“You wanna watch something?” he asks—like it’s the first thing he can think of to get me to shut up.

I should just read between the lines and leave him alone, but the small chance he doesn’t want to be left alone wins out. I take the cushion beside him and pick up the remote.

“What do you feel like watching? Wanna see if I can find any bad movies?”

I leave a little room between us while I search for something to watch. For some reason, that feels weirder than if I’d sat closer, maybe put an arm around the back of the couch. I wouldn’t have had a problem touching him before. It’s suspicious that I do now. But I don’t trust myself to touch him innocently anymore. Not when every time I glance at him, my stomach clenches in knots at how good he looks in his glasses and his pajamas. His hair a little messier than usual.

“What Women Want?”

“Urgh, Mel Gibson’s a dick.”

I laugh. “Isn’t he supposed to be a dick? Don’t you wanna watch him shave his legs in pantyhose?” Why did I say that? Who the hell says pantyhose?

He frowns. “How do you shave your legs in pantyhose? And no—it’ll ruin men in tights for me forever.”

My whole body gets hot. It’s too dark to tell if Elliot’s blushing. Was that a slip? What does Scout call it?—a Freudian slip?

“Okay, no Mel Gibson … but we’ll definitely go for some men in tights.”

Elliot snorts a laugh. “I don’t actually have a thing for⁠—”

“No, no. It’s fine. We don’t kink shame here.”

“I do not have a kink.”

“It’s okay.” I grin. It feels nice teasing him like this. So long as I try not to think about the fact it’s over kinks. And it’s fucking Elliot. I keep searching for something to put on, grinning when I find the perfect distraction. “Look, Burlesque. Don’t you and Scout watch this once a week?”

His face softens and I do a little whoop in my head.

I made it better.

ELLIOT

Why the fuck did I say that thing about men in tights, to Connor of all people?

It doesn’t matter. Connor does not look at me like that and never will. Even if I did have the right equipment, I wouldn’t be anywhere near his league.

I just felt weirdly at ease with him in that moment. Like I was talking to Scout.

I manage to stop berating myself once we get settled into the movie. But then Connor tries to get comfortable by folding his legs under him and his knee touches my leg and stays there. The warmth from his body is like a radiator. My brain can’t focus on anything except the shape of that knee. It’s even worse when he wriggles, changing position only to have his thigh pressed against me.

He swallows so loudly I can hear it over the movie. His breathing has become shallower and more noticeable, too. I covertly glance at him from the corner of my eye and his eyes are all glassy. He’s blinking slowly, like something is distracting him, maybe even turning him on.

Is it Christina? She does look good in all those skimpy outfits. I forget that straight men might actually find this movie sexy rather than camp.

“Do you like it?” I ask, unable to handle the silence any longer.

“Hm? Yeah, it’s good,” he says, painting one of his easygoing smiles on before turning to me. “Better than Mel Gibson in tights.”