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“Yeah.” I swallow, nerves dancing up and down my spine, sending shivers through me.
What would I even send? I think about the lingerie that keeps showing up at my apartment—the lingerie I keep wearing. He likes softer colors, it seems, because everything is pastels. Pale pinks, blues, lavender, mint green, cream. A light pink lace bodysuit arrived yesterday, and I stood in front of the mirror in it, brushing my fingers over the soft, sheer fabric.
I looked incredibly hot in it, and that’s what I’d wear.
A streak of nervous energy hits me in the stomach at the idea, and when I look up at him, he’s still watching me with a challenging, curious expression. My stomach flops again.
If we do this, one of us is getting a photo. We’re stepping past the territory of pretending. A lot of tonight has felt like that.
His eyebrow arches. “Only if you want, Hartley.”
Something stubborn, competitive, and playful courses through me, and my nerves fade. I want the victory to lord over him, but more, I want to see what he sends me.
Losing is not an option.
“Fine.” I bite my bottom lip, and his eyes follow the motion. “Get ready to have your ass kicked.”
A broad grin stretches across his face, and I mirror it even as a voice in my head asks if I’m a fool for thinking I’ll win.
“Ready?” His legs bend, preparing to sprint, and I match his stance.
“Yep.”
“Go.”
We’re off, sprinting, and even as competition rushes through me, I’m filled with laughter, light, and joy. Our feet hit the pavement fast. Someone moves off the path to give us space.
“Sorry,” I call over my shoulder.
“Yeah, sorry,” Rory adds, laughing.
We’re a hundred feet from the sign. Rory’s a few feet ahead of me, so I dig deep. My legs burn and my lungs sear with the need for more oxygen. I don’t think my blood has ever pumped this hard. I’ve never run this fast. I’m flying. I’m filled with color and light, and when Rory looks back at me over his shoulder with that perfect, handsome smile, I know he’s flying, too.
We’re almost at the sign. Fuck. He’s going to win, and Ican’tlose. Not with these stakes. I panic, and with one glance at the sand beside us, I summon all my energy and shove him.
Not my proudest moment. It’s a soft landing, though, so he won’t get hurt.
With a grunt of surprise, he stumbles but doesn’t fall—his stabilizer muscles are too strong—but I take the lead. I run harder and slap a hand on the sign.
When I turn, I see him flop down to seated in the sand, chest rising and falling fast, laughing.
“You dirty little cheater,” he calls, brushing sand off as I loop back to him, heaving for air.
Fuck, that was close. Why did I even agree to that?
Because Rory flicks at something inside me that makes me want to play with him. He knows exactly how to get me going.
I grin at him, still sitting in the sand, and extend a hand, but he pulls me down beside him. I’m filled to the brim with gratitude because this actually made me feel better. Or maybe it’s being with Rory.
We’re both breathing hard still, damp and sweaty, but I smile at him. “Thanks.”
“Don’t thank me yet. You haven’t even seen the picture.”
I choke out a laugh as my stomach swoops in anticipation. As we get up and walk home, I think about earlier at dinner, when my mom asked Rory what he was doing for the holidays.
“So,” I start, “about earlier.”
“Which part?”
