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She’s spitting mad now.
“What?” I act all innocent. “Is it something I said? Or maybe it just bothers you that you really do want to touch me.”
Angrily, she retorts, “You are such an arrogant ass. I really can’t stand you. I wouldn’t touch you if my life depended on it. I wish you hadn’t even helped me last night.”
“Really?” I laugh. “Then you’d still be out there on the deck, probably frozen.”
“Who cares?” she yells. “At least then I wouldn’t be dealing with your annoying ass.”
“Ah, but I think you like dealing with my ass, annoying or not.”
“Just shut up, Hayden.” Spinning on her heels, she takes off.
But as she stomps down my walkway, I can’t resist putting on my most sugary-sweet tone and calling out, “See you Sunday for the autograph signing. I can’t waiiiittt.”
Without turning back, she holds up her hand and promptly gives me the finger.
Later that day, after practice ends, I return home and warm up some of the stew Addison gave me.
It turns out to be fucking delicious. And it’s clearly not poisoned, not that I really ever believed it was. I was just being a dick. I actually feel kind of bad for sparring with her this morning.
How did it even start?I wonder as I sit at the kitchen table and dig my spoon into my bowl of stew.
As I devour the last hearty bite, I remember my hoodie comment was the truce-breaker.
I should have kept my mouth shut. At this point, she’ll probably burn my hoodie and I’ll never see it again.
“I like that one too,” I mumble as I push the bowl away and lean back in my chair. “Oh, well.”
I consider going next door to apologize, but it’s only a little after two. I’m sure Addison is still at work.
I didn’t see her car, which is a white BMW, no longer the beige rental, out in the driveway. It could be in the garage, but I don’t think so. We both seem to park outside a lot.
It’s fine that she’s not home. It’s probably best to just let this go. I’ll be away for a couple of days, anyway.
Our team leaves for Tampa tomorrow afternoon for an away game with the Lightning on Saturday.
Looks like I’ll just deal with Addison and the fallout from our argument on Sunday at the autograph signing.
That is, if she’s even still talking to me.
Addison
Iswear Hayden Harrington is going to be the death of me.
“And if he doesn’t take me out,” I murmur as I close my eyes and slide down deeper into the steamy, hot bubble bath I drew for myself a short while ago, “I very well might end him.”
Before I do, though, I’d like to feel his full lips pressed to mine. Just once. They look so soft and luscious all the time.
Mmm, and I bet they’d feel even better right—I trail my fingers up along my inner thigh—here.
Wait, no.
I stop and sit up straight, water and bubbles sloshing over the side of the tub.
“I am not doing this. Not with that asshat in the starring role.” I cross my arms to make sure I don’t waver and give in.
It’s late Saturday night, and I can’t believe I was just about to touch myself while thinking about Hayden.
