Page 43 of Playing for Love

Cat set the table with her friend and Mia and I managed to get the food on the table. Hunter and Tate were in charge of drinks.

“Dinner at last,” I said.

“Was that your version of saying grace?” Mia asked, eyes crinkled on the verge of laughter, happy and light.

“I guess it is.” I lifted my bottle and everyone joined and Hunter, of all people, made the toast to friends.

By the time we finished eating it was close to ten p.m., the kitchen was a mess, and no one was going anywhere except to the living room with small glasses of liqueur or brandy. I poured myself Sambuca over ice, Hunter grabbed himself another beer, and stopped me in the kitchen.

“Have you talked to Denise yet?”

I took a sip of the sweet drink before answering him.

“No. You decided to play my conscience?”

He smiled evilly. “It’s fun.”

“Seriously, I need to tell her in person. She’s coming up next Sunday for the game. I’d planned to tell her then.”

“What about Mia?”

“We’re friends.”

“She with Fontanna?”

I shrugged. “You tell me.” I paused a beat. He nodded. “We done with twenty questions?”

“Your conscience is satisfied. For the moment.”

I rolled my eyes because I knew it would annoy him. He punched my arm, nearly spilling my drink. I pounded his back, spilling his beer.

“Son of a—”

I went around him through the dining room and into the living room with the others.

I’d felt like a hypocrite saying that I was friends with Mia, knowing the attempt was futile. Knowing the attempt would end badly. I wondered where this self-destructive streak came from.