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“Don’t baby eat me, you’re hurt, and it’s because of me.”
“It’s actually because Blue is an asshole.”
“Yeah, he is.” He doesn’t let go of my wrist. His thumb presses just under the bruise, careful, like he’s checking for a fracture or something. “You still need to ice. Swelling starts fast. If you wait until after we eat, you’re just being stupid.”
“Ouch, are you calling me stupid, brain?”
“Of course not,” he says, lifting his gaze to mine and glaring at me. It’s adorable, and I laugh. “I’m not eating until we get ice on this.”
“Fine. I’ll go get ice. Eat your sandwich and I’ll grab it.”
He lets go as I stand up. I shake out my hand and instantly regret it. The girl at the counter gives me a cup of ice and a look that says she already heard about me punching someone. I guess news would travel fast with two hockey players throwing punches in the quad. Especially since she looks vaguely familiar, which means she might be a puck bunny.
I grab a pile of napkins to wrap some of the ice chips in, because Quinn would not like melting ice puddles on the table.
“You were supposed to start without me,” I say, dropping into the chair.
He ignores me and takes the napkins, unfolding them into a larger square and layering them on top of each other before putting ice in the middle and bundling it, before taking my wrist again and holding the makeshift ice pack to my knuckles. The cold seeps through the paper, and I hiss. He doesn’t apologize.
“You’re enjoying this,” I tease.
He tries and fails to hide his smile. “I never thought I’d have a violent boyfriend.”
I roll my eyes. “Yet you have me wrapped around your pinky.”
He lifts his hazel eyes, sparkling. “You know that’s not a real thing.”
“It is if I’m the sample.” I nod at his still wrapped sandwich, lifting an eyebrow. “Eat. I’m not bleeding out. And I have ice on it now.”
“Keep it on there. For at least ten minutes,” he orders.
“Bossy.”
He unwraps his sandwich watching me to make sure I keep the ice on my knuckles. I lean back in my chair and hold the slowly dampening napkins to my knuckles. I flex my fingers slightly and it hurts, but it seems to make him relax a little bit more.
“I don’t like that he made you do that,” he says, his voice coming out quiet in the loud cafe. “I also don’t like that some part of me is happy you hit him.”
“I’d do it again.”
He twists his lips.
“Hey, baby, you’re the one who picked a hockey player to fall in love with,” I say on a laugh.
“You can’t just call me baby anytime you want to distract me.” His eyes dip to my mouth. I bite down on my lower lip, releasing it slowly, enjoying the way he tracks it.
“No?”
“No,” he says. He takes a big bite of his sandwich and chews it as if we both don’t know that he’s ready to go back to the room right this second.
FIFTY-TWO
QUINN
The door shuts and the ice is mostly water in the drenched napkin. Daniel drops his stuff and toes off his shoes, still careful with his right hand, and I put the dripping napkins in the bathroom trashcan. My heart is so loud in my ears, and my palms are a little sweaty. I decided on the walk back that I wanted to try something, and if I give myself time to think about it, I’ll reconsider and distract myself by reorganizing my desk.
I cross the room and put a hand on his chest. He stops, eyebrows up, eyes dropping to my hand before crawling back up to my face.
“Sit,” I say, and nod at my bed. It comes out sounding more bossy than I mean it to, and I add, “Please.”
