Page 69 of The Hot Shot

Fact is, I’m the fool. I want Chess. I’ve wanted her since the beginning. But I got caught up in old habits and let her think I was a bad bet, good for only one night. And she’s made it clear she has no interest in taking a chance on me. Hell, I orchestrated it so that she wouldn’t.

Why did I do that?

I don’t have an answer, but now I have to face her... and tell her what?Hey, Chess, I know I’ve never dated a woman, but the thought of you leaving fills me with dread. Because I don’t want to be your friend anymore. I just want to be yours.

Yeah, that will go over well. She’ll probably cut and run.

It occurs to me that this is why I don’t do relationships; I know fuck all about how to handle one.

Maybe start by apologizing for flipping out on her last night.

Since Chess usually sleeps until ten, I decide to get her some breakfast as a peace offering. Apparently, she’s a sucker for beignets. I’ll jog over to Cafe du Monde and pick her up a bag.

As I turn the corner into the main living space, I halt in my tracks. Chess looks up from her spot at the stove. “Hey!” she says with forced brightness. “I’m making French toast. With sausages. Do you like French toast?”

Hey, Chess, I don’t just want you. I need you. I need you so much it hurts. I’m pretty sure if you leave it will end me.

I clear my throat. “I love it.”

“Good.” She waves her spatula in the direction of the coffee machine. “Coffee just finished, if you want some.”

I’m staring at her even as I’m pulling down two mugs and pouring the coffee. It feels like I’m walking through deep water. Meanwhile, Chess bustles around, flipping the French toast and dipping new slices into the egg batter she has set up in a shallow bowl.

I add cream for Chess’s coffee and two sugars for mine then pass her the mug. “This is new,” I say with a nod toward her breakfast.

Chess glances at me from beneath her long lashes. Thoseclear green eyes hold a hint of regret, and my heart starts thudding. Is she moving out? Is that what this is? My fingers wrap around my mug, pressing into the heated ceramic.

“You’ve done so much for me,” she says, sliding the spatula under a golden-brown toast and putting it onto the finished stack. “I just wanted to do something for you, too.”

“You don’t have to.”

She looks up at me, so fucking beautiful, I almost lean in and take a taste of her.

That husky, sexy voice of hers sounds small and sorry. “I want to.”

Her lips are delicately drawn, a soft pink shade that reminds me of candy. I want to press my mouth to hers. Again and again. And again.

Jesus, I’m waxing poetic like some lovelorn sap while she’s looking at me as if I’m touched in the head. I realize I’ve been silent for too long. “Are you staying?” I croak out.

Chess drops her gaze to the stove, and her fingers tighten around the handle of the spatula. “I like it here.”

I lean against the counter, so I don’t make a fool of myself and fall to my knees.I love you here.I clear my throat. “You keep making me breakfast, and you can stay here forever.”

She snickers. “I’d hold back on that declaration until you’ve tasted your breakfast. I’m not known for my cooking.”

Then I’ll makeyoubreakfast forever.

I dip my head over her shoulder and peer into the egg mix. “Is that a shell?” I tease, pretending I’m immune to the clean scent of her hair and the warmth of her slim body.

“Shut up.” Chess elbows me in the gut, and it’s all I can do not to pull her against me.

My control is so shot, I can’t stop myself from grasping her upper arm and holding on. She stills, not moving, not saying a word. My grasp is gentle, my palm pressed against the smooth warmth of her skin. I’m close enough that, whenever she breathes in, her shoulder blades almost brush my chest. A phantom touch,yet I feel that contact as if it were real. It shivers over my skin, and I want more.

And, Jesus, who is this guy I’ve become? I don’t recognize him; he is feral, hyperaware, and yet so tenderhearted it disorients me.

Chess’s head is bent, her eyes on the pan. Butter sizzles, a soggy piece of yellow, battered bread slowly browning. Neither of us moves, my hand cradling her arm, our breaths in sync. In. Out. In. Out.

It feels as though I’m fucking her.