Page 101 of Desperate Games

I stand in the doorway, fists clenching and unclenching, every instinct in me screaming to close the distance.

To grab her, pull her into my arms, bury my face in her neck until she remembers who the hell I am and what we are.

But I don’t.

I wait.

And the silence stretches.

She doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t give me one flicker of hazel eyes or trembling lips. Just keeps waiting for her boiling water, measuring out her leaves, busying herself like I’m not in the room.

The kettle whistles.

The sound cuts through my chest like a knife.

I want to howl. To rage. To demand she stop pretending.

We were so close before I left—closer than I ever thought possible.

I saw it in her eyes, felt it in her touch, tasted it in her kiss.

She was mine. She is mine.

And now?

She’s slipping away.

I need her back.

I need her back in my arms, back in my bed, back in the center of my goddamn world where she belongs.

“Andy.”

Her name rips out of me like a growl, low and rough, meant to drag her gaze to mine.

I make a decision right then and there. I need to lay it on the line.

No more games. No more second guessing.

Chapter Thirty-Two-Andrea

“Andy.”

My name rolls out of him like gravel and fire, straight through my chest like an arrow, and the tears come before I can stop them.

But I’m a coward, so I keep my back to him.

“Andy, look at me.”

“How was your trip?” My voice is sharp, mocking, but my head is shaking violently—no, no, no—I won’t turn around.

“It was work.”

“Work?” I snap. “Half-naked women and princes, private concerts with superstars, private chefs—that was work?”

“Yeah,” he says, unbothered. “Work. And most of the women were all naked. Not half.”

I whirl on him, mouth falling open. “Really? Well, how nice for you.”