Page 67 of Slapshot Baby

You are unhinged.

Kai's posture is neutral, the stance he uses when he's being sociable without being engaged.

I know the difference because I've spent weeks cataloguing every version of this man's body language like a researcher compiling a dissertation on my own destruction.

He's not interested in her. I can see that.

It doesn't matter.

Because the feeling tearing through me isn't rational. It's hot and raw and possessive, a fist closing around my chest. My stomach burns with it. My fingernails dig into my palms.

She laughs again, tips her head back, throat long and exposed. Her hand slides from his forearm to his bicep.

I stand up so fast, Biscuit startles.

Mira drops into the chair beside me, holding a glass of something cold. She follows my gaze across the porch and takes a sip.

"That's Lena, the friend of a cousin. She does this at every gathering.”

She finds Kai at every family gathering and flirts with him?

Heat travels up my neck. My face scrunches with fury.

“She looks for the nearest man she thinks is eligible and makes hereself welcoming,” Mira says.

"I don't care."

"Your face says differently."

"My face is lying."

"Your face is doing the exact opposite of lying." She takes another sip. "For what it's worth, Kai hasn't looked at her once the way he looks at you."

"How does he look at me?"

She smiles then tilts her glass in my direction. "You’ll find out."

I look away from Kai and the woman and focus on Biscuit, who has recovered from my sudden movement and is now licking her own foot. Zero emotional complexity.

I want to be Biscuit. Biscuit doesn't have feelings about men's forearms being touched by women in sundresses.

The rest of the afternoon drags after that. I smile. I chat. I throw the ball for Biscuit.

I do not look at Kai.

I look at Kai constantly.

He catches me twice. The first time he holds my gaze across the yard and his mouth curves in a way that makes my ribs ache. The second time he's walking toward me and I turn away so fast I nearly trip over Biscuit.

By evening, as people drift inside and the sky bleeds amber over the lake, I'm wound so tight.

Kai finds me in the upstairs hallway carrying my overnight bag, looking for whatever room I've been assigned. He's leaning in a doorway, arms crossed, wearing a faint smirk.

"Last door on the left," he says.

I push past him and open it.

One room. One queen bed with a white duvet and too many pillows. Kai’s bag is already on the chair by the window.