Page 158 of The Play Maker

I give him a look. “You’re insufferable.”

He shoots me a look. “Maisie.”

“Yeah?”

“I like you.” He cups my face with both hands. “Like a lot. Will you be my girlfriend or do I need to get down on one knee and make it weird?”

He starts to lift himself, but I laugh and grab his hoodie. “Please don’t.”

“Good,” he says, flopping back beside me with a groan. “Because my knee cracks every time I bend it.”

“You’re twenty-one.”

“I’m fragile.”

He rolls toward me again, nosing into the crook of my neck like he’s been starved for this. His arm slides around my waist, tugs me closer.

“God, I missed you.”

I can’t help but smile. “You saw me yesterday.”

“Exactly. It’s been way too long.”

His thumb strokes the dip of my waist through my sweatshirt. And even though we’re fully clothed, my body knows exactly what his is doing.Exactlywhere he is. I feel every brush of his fingertips like a spark down my spine.

My hand moves without thinking. I drag my fingers across his chest, right where the fabric of his hoodie dips at the collar, revealing the edge of warm skin and muscle. He shifts slightly, sucking in a breath, like even that small touch gets to him.

One of his arms curls behind my back, pulling me in. The other hand slides up, brushing along my jaw before cupping my cheek again.

Then his mouth finds mine, and I feel it all the way down my spine.

He groans into my mouth, and pulls back just enough to look at me. “Fuck,” he mutters. “You taste like cherries.”

I blink. “It’s my lip balm.”

He smirks, shaking his head as his thumb traces along my jaw. “That’s fine by me. Cherry reigns supreme.”

I freeze.

He doesn’t notice at first. His hand is still stroking over my hip, his mouth back at my neck, kissing a line just below my ear. But my brain has already spiraled into overdrive.

Because those words?

They aren’t just words.

They’rehiswords.Six’s.

Stupid, jokey words that shouldn’t mean anything. But theydo. Because I remember the first time he said it, how my stomach swirled and how much I smiled.

I remember the way he used to say stupid things like that, turning nonsense into inside jokes. The way he made me laugh when I was having the worst week. How it felt easy with him,safe, even though I didn’t know his real name or face or anything beyond his words.

And now Austin’s here.

Warm. Real. Tangled up with me on his bed. And I’m thinking about someone else.

I suck in a quiet breath. He murmurs something against my skin—something I don’t even catch—and all I can feel is the panic starting to creep up my throat.

This isn’t fair to him.