Page 33 of Playing for Keeps

“You know I can take care of myself, right? No daughter of Oscar Smith would ever go through life without being well versed in how to take a man down if she had to. You know that right?”

“Not exactly, but I should have guessed,” he says.

I sigh because he doesn’t look happy. He’s really worried about me and that sends my pleasure meter up a few hundred notches. Even though I have no business being pleased.

“Look, I had Duff with me for backup tonight. We were okay. We were about to leave when you came in.” I lie my ass off to placate him and now I furrow my brow because that is plain silly. And unprecedented. Since when do I need to placate a guy, especially a guy who’s a player, not my boyfriend? It’s a waste of time anyway, because his face takes on a darker look than ever.

“I don’t give a shit if you had Duff with you. And you’re a liar because you weren’t close to leaving. Those guys weren’t going to let you leave easy. You put Louie in a tough position. He was seconds away from calling the cops and that would not be good for business.”

Listening to him, watching him, it strikes me he’s not thinking about the trouble he could have gotten into, he’s thinking about me and about Louie.

“What about you?” I say. “I’m sorry you almost got into a brawl—you could have gotten—”

“Don’t even pretend you’re sorry for one minute,” he says. He punches the engine off and that makes my heart tumble around, gives me a flutter in my gut, the kind I’ve only heard of in fairy tales. Oh my God. I’m in such trouble, the kind I don’t want to be in. The kind where I start thinking too much about a man, so much that it throws me off course maybe.

But my throbbing center forces me to acknowledge it’s something I definitely want. How close to the edge can I get and stay on this side of the line?

“You want to come inside and talk about it?”

“Talk? Is that seriously what you think we’ll do if I come inside with you?” He leans close to make his point scaldingly clear. In spite of the tremble in my voice I keep my chin up and lean in to meet him.

“So? Are you coming inside?”

He stares and I can see the war inside his head, in his gut, and probably in his pants though I refrain from glancing down. The tension radiates from him and it feels delicious, making me itch to touch him, touch his skin, feel it against mine, feel his hands on me—

“No.” He shoves his door open and gets out, comes around and opens my door. I barely have enough time to regroup, emotional whiplash taking its toll. I get out of his car, careful not to touch him as if he’ll incinerate me if I do. I’m afraid to lose my cool, to lose any more of my pride than I already have.

He dogs me up the drive to the door and stands behind me while I unlock it. I don’t ask him again to come inside when I turn to face him, before I push the door open.

“Suit yourself, Fontanna,” I say, the automatic bravado defense kicking in. He smiles—it’s laced with irony, but the dimples are there so what do I care? The lift of my heart is automatic.

“There’s no good outcome for us, Chloe. We’d be a train wreck before the season ended—and that’s the best-case scenario.”

“What’s the worst case?” I return his smile, more mischief in mine, more flirtation. I don’t care what his answer is, I just want to hear him say it.

“One or both of us gets destroyed.”

I don’t bother pointing out that’s what a train wreck is because he’s made his point, made it too serious. I also don’t ask if he’s thinking we’d destroy each other purposefully, because I know the answer to that. He thinks I’m out to get him.

Too bad there’s an argument to be made that he’s right. Except I know I’m not purposely trying to be destructive to him. I’m purposely trying to be constructive for me. And that just makes me a selfish bitch, doesn’t it? Yes. No. Fuck.

Pushing the door open, I turn away from him and go inside without another word. I run up the stairs and look out my window to watch him get into his car and pull away from the curb, slowly. I watch him drive until I can’t see him anymore.