Page 93 of The Play Maker

The sheets are twisted around my legs, the room dim except for sunlight slipping through the slats in the curtains. Somewhere downstairs, muffled voices murmur, but I can’t make out a word.

It takes a moment to realize where I am. The unfamiliar mattress. My back grazing something solid. Someone.

Austin.

Oh god.

My brain snaps online all at once, and I freeze.

His arm’s wrapped around my waist, his hand resting low on my hip, and his palm spread wide. I’m pressed completely against him, my back to chest. All of me against all of him.

And there’s definitely something pressed against my butt.

I try to move—just a little, a subtle shift—but the second I do, his fingers flex on my waist, pulling me back the tiniest bit. He sighs, groggy and amused, pressing his face closer to my shoulder.

“Maisie,” he murmurs, voice still rough with sleep, “you keep rubbing up on me like that, I’m gonna think it’s on purpose.”

My whole body locks up. “I didn’t mean to—I must’ve rolled over?—”

He laughs, warm and low in my ear, sending a shiver down my spine. “Mmm. Not complaining.”

I press my hands to the mattress, weighing how fast I can escape without making this weirder. But then he shifts behind me, slower this time, his nose brushing the curve of my shoulder.

“You smell really good,” he murmurs, still drowsy. “Is that like… coconut shampoo or something?”

“I’m gonna need you to stop talking,” I mutter, my heart hammering against my ribs.

He laughs again, his hand still resting on my waist. “I’m just saying. You wake up in my bed, wrapped around me, smelling all sweet, and I’m the bad guy for noticing?”

I lift myself off the bed. His hand slips off my waist as I move, and I twist around, glaring over my shoulder.

He’s a mess—eyes half-shut, hair sticking out in every direction, pillow lines on his cheek. The blanket’s pooled low on his hips. Somehow, that makes him even hotter.

“I didn’t mean to stay over. I just… slept.”

“You’re real squirmy this morning,” he says, lips twitching with amusement.

“That’s because your—” I gesture toward him, flustered. “Your body was on mine.”

He hums, shifting onto his side and propping himself up on one elbow. “I could always help you relax, y’know…”

My brain short-circuits.

He pauses, then, with a slow grin he adds, “Some hands-on tutoring.”

My face is on fire. “You’re still drunk,” I mutter.

Austin tuts, shaking his head. “Hungover, maybe. But not drunk.”

He doesn’t look away, his lips sleep-swollen, eyes bleary and soft but still so focused and locked on me.

I grab my tote off the desk chair, my fingers fumbling with the strap. My shirt’s all creased, my bra definitely crooked, and I can feel mascara smudged somewhere under one eye.Great. Love that for me. I rake a hand through my hair, trying to flatten the mess without a mirror, even though I know there’s no fixing any of it.

Behind me, Austin flops onto his back with a sigh. “You’re not staying?”

I keep my eyes on my bag as I stuff everything inside. “I have tutoring in twenty.”

He makes a soft, sleepy protest noise, and I glance back. I hate that my heart stutters a little when I meet his eyes.