Page 48 of Trick Shot

If only it were that simple.

I shake out of his grip, putting space between us. My chest is still rising too fast. I can’t look at him.

“You said you were staying downstairs,” I say, sharp. “A girl walked in—”

Shit.

I stop myself too late. I shouldn’t have said that.

His face shifts, concern melting into something else. Something smug that makes me want to scream. Because I just gave him a piece of information that I shouldn’t have. Now he knows I care.

A slow grin tugs at the corner of his mouth.

I take a step back. He takes two steps forward. He’s too close. The hallway suddenly feels smaller.

“You saw a girl walk in my room,” he says low. “That’s why you’re upset?”

I don’t answer, my jaw shut tight, my chin lifted high.

“God,” he mutters, chuckling under his breath. “That pissed you off, didn’t it?”

I curse myself for saying too much, for feeling too much, and for giving him anything.

“Forget it.” I cross my arms.

“Must be Tanner’s lucky night,” he chuckles. “We switched rooms.”

I whip my head up, and his grin widens.

I want to punch him. I want to kiss him. I want to set the whole house on fire and blame it on him for smiling like that.

“Damn,” he murmurs, eyes dragging down me and back up. “You really thought—”

“Move,” I snap, brushing past him.

But he moves faster. His hand wraps around my wrist, spinning me back and pulling me flush against him. Chest to chest, breath to breath.

His hand slides to my lower back, keeping me there like he dares me to fight it.

“Why’d it piss you off so much?” he asks low.

“It didn’t do anything,” I say flatly, heart slamming into my ribs.

His eyes flicker to my face, then soften. He lifts a hand and brushes my cheek, rubbing something wet. A tear—a single line down my cheek he catches with his thumb, wiping it away softly.

He holds his finger up between us, glistening with my tears.

“Didn’t it?” he asks quietly, but there’s cocky amusement in his eyes.

I stare at his finger, then at his smug face. I want to deny it. I want to smack that smug grin off his face. I want to kiss him.

His mouth curves while he still holds me against him. My heart is thudding like it’s trying to reach him first.

His gaze drags down my face to my lips, then back to my eyes.

“I didn’t touch anyone else,” he says softly. “I haven’t.” His voice is rough, honest in a way that disarms me completely. “The only girl I want walking into my bedroom is you.”

God. Why do I want to believe that? Why do I feel like my knees are giving out?