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I bet she does.
Quick footfalls come down the stairs and when they hit the bottom step, I hear giggling.
Four people live here, so surely it’s Mac or Pearse. The footsteps grow louder and the mantaking up so much of my headspace rounds the corner.
When Hagan sees me, his laughter abruptly ends, and his jaw clamps closed. We both stare at the other. The air is full of nuclear energy—like Chernobyl amount of energy. The kind that will not only burn you, but one that will decimate your life.
He lifts his phone back to his mouth. “Hap, I’ll call you back. Yeah. Whatever you need. I’ve got ya. You know that.”
He moves in slow motion, tapping his phone to hang up, letting his arm fall to his side. Hagan moves around with ease. “Well, look who’s here with Logan,” in a decidedly snarky tone.
“He needed a ride,” I say as I shift my weight.
His jaw ticks and a sly smile covers his face. “What are friends for?”
Closing in on me, he backs me against the fridge, placing his palm on the stainless steel and the other on the curvature of my waist. My heart pounds against my rib cage. It’s so loud, my eyes are vibrating.
He drinks me in, looking into my eyes, then they travel down my neck. I’m wearing a midriff sweatshirt that hangs off of one shoulder. His eyes skim my bare shoulder, then to my hips. His breath is heavy, and my airways constrict. I drink him in, too. It’s impossible not too—he’s breathtakingly handsome.
“Like what you see?” he asks in a raspy whisper. His hair is slightly damp and curling at his nape and usually clear brown eyes are anything but clear. His pupils are dilated.
Oh, I like what I see, but forming words are way down the list for my brain—it’s too busy producing a boat load of dopamine. My head feels concussed—dizzy from his woodsy scent, his wintergreen breath, and his wet, raspberry-colored lips. I nod my head involuntarily—it’s like I have no control.
“That’s what I thought. You like bad boys. Nice guys finish last, don’t they, Adalee?”
His words breeze across my ear and under my jaw. My legs feel like overcooked noodles. He’s melting me with his svelte voice and proximity. He presses his body against mine then raises his hand to my neck, using two fingers to roam the length of it. His tongue peeks out between those perfect lips.
I’m about to explode. I place my hand on his muscular abdomen, moving it upward when he grabs me by the wrist. He turns it over and blankets the sensitive skin with a kiss as gentle as a falling leaf.
A throat clears in the distance. Hagan lowers my wrist and swipes his thumb over the same spot. Back and forth. Finally, I exhale. The corner of one side of his lip tugs upward into a knowing grin.
“Am I interrupting? Because I need some milk and you two are… umm… blocking the fridge.” Logan mumbles.
Hagan steps back slowly and says, “Nothing going on here. She hates me. Right, Adalee?” Each breath is harsh whisper. He turns and knocks on the steel fridge twice. “I’ll let you two get to it. Erika’s waiting on me.”
I snap the postie note from the frig. “Wait, you have a message. Who’s Harper?” I stride toward him, holding it out as he snatches it from my hand.
He cackles. That’s it, but this time his laugh makes my heart plunge into deep depressing waters.
The pizza delivery girl is standing outside the front door when Hagan pushes it open. He hands her cash and throws the pizza on the coffee table before walking out the door.
Logan pours himself a glass of milk. “Do you want one?”
I nod.
“You going to tell me what’s going on with you two?”
Ignoring his question, we walk into the living room. I grab a piece of meat lover’s pizza, taking off half the toppings while Logan has already consumed a whole piece. We eat in silence, and he turns on the news to watch highlights of the game on the local channel. Logan will be able to go pro after this year and he’ll be the face of an NFL team, the one to breathe life into a struggling franchise.
I watch him watching himself talk. He leans forward like he’s totally interested in what he has to say. “You are a class A narcissist,” I joke and poke him in the side of his ridiculously hard obliques.
“Little A, if you don’t love yourself, how can anyone else?”
I find myself nodding. “Will you please use my name?”
“Nah, you love it,” he claims. “Now tell me about Hagan.”
My feet are on the coffee table, which has a metal top and wooden legs. I rub my palms over my jeans. “I don’t know, and that’s the truth.”
