Page 27 of Trick Shot

Still, I need to be sure. So I open my chat with Bunny again for the fifteenth time this evening, finally deciding to do what I actually came here to do.

I type slowly.

ME:Missing me, Bunny?

I glance up and send it, holding my breath. A second later, her phone lights up.

Her eyes shift as she glances at it before picking it up. She unlocks her phone, the soft light catching her face, and smiles. A slow, curling smile. My chest tightens as I watch her type something out, fast. Then she sets the phone down again, casually. I barely have time to blink before my own phone vibrates.

My stomach drops as my eyes flick to the screen.

BUNNY:Seems like you’re the one missing me.

The blood drains from my fucking head. My eyes snap back to her. She’s smiling to herself while adjusting her reading light.

And I’m about one second away from snapping the phone in my hand clean in half.

Dom’s still talking. His voice is somewhere behind me, something about room assignments or Coach’s texts or who’s in charge of groceries.

I don’t know. I can’t fucking hear a word because my mind is spiraling.

My foot’s on the gas, and every thought is a new exit ramp I blow right past.

It can’t be her. It’s too easy, too coincidental, and too fucking cruel.

My best friend’s baby sister? The girl I’ve been sexting and fantasizing about and carving fucking furniture for? Unless I’m so deep into this obsession I’m seeing things. Filling in gaps with shit that makes sense in the darkest, most fucked-up corner of my brain.

Dominic’s little sister. I shake my head.

I need more proof. I need something that can prove—

And that’s when I remember one of the photos she’s sent me. My thumb’s already scrolling through them until it lands on the one I’m looking for.

It’s a close-up picture of a tattoo—a small red heart right behind her ear. Her only tattoo. I’ve stared at that pic more times than I’ll admit.

And if this girl has it… no more guessing.

***

It takes five minutes for her to finish her water and walk in for another glass. I have my nose buried in my phone, pretending I don’t hear her footsteps, the way they pause at the threshold like she’s deciding if walking into this kitchen is smart or suicidal. She waits one beat before finally crossing the massive living room and walks toward the adjacent kitchen.

“Came to see if I left another hoodie lying around for you to steal?” I glance over my shoulder.

She halts halfway to the fridge, cheeks already going pink from my question. Yet, she straightens her spine and tilts her chin up like she’s got claws tucked under her ribcage.

“Might do good on eBay,” she fires back.

“You selling it or framing it?” I huff a laugh.

“Depends. How famous are you again?” She tilts her head to the side, her brows furrowed in fake confusion.

“More than you can handle.”

Her eyes roll, but the flush in her cheeks deepens.

And fuck if I don’t want to trace that heat down her neck with my mouth.

She opens the fridge and pulls out an already opened bottle of wine.