Page 64 of Desperate Games

And that, most likely, he hates my fucking guts.

“I don’t hate you, Andy,” comes the low, familiar voice from the doorway.

I scream.

Well, it’s more like a choked squeak with a mouth full of foam, but still—I spin around, toothpaste dripping, heart in my throat.

“Jesus, Remy! Are you trying to give me a heart attack?”

He leans against the doorframe, casual in sweatpants and no shirt, just miles of tattooed skin and bulging muscles. His arms are crossed. His gaze is dark and unreadable.

“Were you eavesdropping?” I snap, trying to wipe toothpaste off my chin and save whatever dignity I have left.

He lifts an eyebrow.

“Didn’t have to. You know you’re talking out loud, right?”

My jaw drops.

“I—what—no I wasn’t.”

“You said, ‘What have I done?’ followed by, and I quote, ‘Why does my body react to him like he’s a goddamn drug?’”

“I did not say that,” I gasp, horrified.

“You did,” he replies, stepping inside the room now. “Word for word.”

The floor should open up and swallow me whole. That would be kinder.

“I’m just processing. It’s hormones,” I mutter, finally rinsing and spitting and flinging my toothbrush into the sink like it personally betrayed me. “This is all a lot.”

His voice softens. “Yeah. It is.”

We stand there for a second.

Him a few feet away, me damp and vulnerable in nothing but a towel.

“Where’s Callie?” I ask, desperate to change the subject.

“Back in her bed. Out cold,” he says. “She likes you, you know.”

I blink. “She does?”

Remy nods. “Said you smell like cake.”

I laugh, despite myself. “That’s probably the strawberry milk she spilled on me.”

“Still,” he says. “She doesn’t warm up to people that fast. But you?” He steps closer. “You got under her skin already.”

Just like you got under mine, he doesn’t say.

But I hear it anyway.

Feel it.

And when our eyes meet—his glittering and guarded, mine wide and swimming—I feel it again.

That pull.