Page 28 of Half-Court Heat

She sighed and pushed off the counter, brushing past me to head into the bedroom. I followed behind, tension simmering just beneath my skin.

“I’m not trying to turn us into a brand,” Eva said suddenly. “I just thought … maybe people would want to hear what we have to say.”

“They already hear you,” I said, the words out before I could stop them. “You’re in ads. You’re on magazine covers. You do interviews and panels and sponsorships and—hell, swimsuit shoots. You don’t need a podcast to be heard.”

She turned around slowly, hurt flickering across her beautiful face. “So what, you think I should shut up now that I’ve got enough attention?”

“That’s not what I said.”

“No, but it’s what you meant,” she bit back.

My pulse jumped. “You’re twisting it.”

“I’mtrying, Lex. I’m trying to include you, to make space for both of us. You think I don’t see what’s happening? That you’re pulling away?”

“I’m not—” I stopped myself, jaw clenched. “I’m not trying to be difficult. I just … I want to be your person, not your project.”

Eva was across the room and in front of me in two strides. “Youaremy person. But you’re also the one who asked me toslow down, and now I’m trying to build somethingwithyou, and it still feels like I’m doing it wrong.”

I stared at her, chest heaving. “You’re not doing it wrong. You’re just everywhere all the time. And I get that this is your moment. I really do. I just don’t know how to keep up.”

Eva’s hand found my waist before I even realized she was moving. Her touch was firm and grounding. “Then don’t keep up. Just be here. With me.”

I searched her face for any trace of arrogance or ego, but found none. There was just vulnerability. Just want.

Her fingers slipped beneath the hem of my T-shirt. I didn’t stop her.

“Don’t be mad,” she said, her mouth near my neck.

“I’m trying not to be.”

“Try harder,” she commanded, and then her lips were on mine—hungry and insistent. There was an apology there, too, buried in the way she kissed me like she had something to lose.

I let her kiss me.

I let her slide her hands beneath my shirt, across skin that still carried the tension of everything we hadn’t said.

I kissed her back, harder, more desperate than I meant it to be. My fingers found her hips and pulled her close. Our bodies met like magnets, drawn together by something older than the evening’s fight, deeper than the fear of losing her.

When she tugged my shirt over my head and tossed it aside, I didn’t protest.

When she walked me backward until the backs of my knees hit the bed, I went willingly.

She followed me down, onto the mattress, her mouth still on mine, and then against my jaw and the curve of my neck. Her hand slid up my side and over my ribs, like she was mapping me—relearning what already belonged to her.

“You drive me crazy,” I mumbled into her.

“Right back at you.”

Her thigh slipped between mine, and I gasped into her mouth. She smiled like she remembered exactly how I sounded when I lost focus, when I forgot how mad I was.

“You good?” she murmured.

I didn’t answer with words. I arched into her and let my hands find the lines of her back, the swell of her hips, the soft stretch of skin just beneath her ribs.

I traced the strap of her tank top with a featherlight touch. “Off,” I breathed.

She obliged, tugging it up and over her head, watching my reaction the whole time.