Page 40 of Slapshot Kiss

“I like it. I’m keeping it.” He says it softly, and I already know I can’t make him do shit. That man is stubborn. And even if I don’t want to admit it, I do like the nickname.

He tilts his head just a fraction, looking at me so earnestly that my eyes drop to his mouth.

I hate myself for it instantly. Hate the traitorous flip in my stomach. Hate that three days of telling myself it’s the dog, it’s just the dog are currently folding like a lawn chair.

He leans in. Slow. Slow enough that I have every chance in the world to put a hand on his chest and say nope, not doing this, which somehow makes it so much worse, because that would require me wanting to stop it.

I don't.

I lean in too.

Close enough that I can feel actual heat coming off his skin, close enough to catch the ghost of the shampoo from a hotel three time zones away, close enough that Pickles' snoring is suddenly the loudest thing in the room because everything else in me has gone quiet, waiting—

My phone buzzes on the coffee table. Loud. Rattling against the wood like it's got somewhere urgent to be.

We both freeze.

Then pull back at almost the exact same second, both of us laughing too loud, too fast, the specific brand of laugh you produce when you've been caught doing absolutely nothing and still feel like you got caught red-handed.

"That's—" I say, "I should get that."

I do not move to get it.

"Yeah." He clears his throat, drags a hand through his hair like it personally wronged him. "You should. Definitely."

Neither of us reaches for it.

Five seconds. Six. Pickles shifts between us, oblivious, one paw twitching against my thigh, and the phone finally goes still and quiet like it's given up on either of us doing our jobs.

Wyatt's still looking at me. Not at the phone. At me, like the phone is a mild inconvenience he's willing to let win this round but not the next one.

"You gonna check it?" he asks.

“Yeah…”

Except I don't move.

I'm still trying to remember what we were talking about before I started staring at his mouth. Something about the nickname? Or was that before he moved closer?

God, why is he still looking at me like that?

My phone buzzes again, and I flinch.

“Right. Phone.” I clear my throat and lean forward, nearly sending my plate sliding off my knee in the process. I catch it at the last second, set it on the couch cushion, and grab my phone.

Smooth, Quinn. Very smooth.

I stare at the screen for a second without taking in a single word.

Wyatt shifts beside me, and my eyes immediately dart back to him.

For fuck's sake. It's a text message. Read it.

Dad:

Adam's mom mentioned Saturday still works for you two. Told her you're excited. Don't make a liar out of me, kid.

I read it twice just to be on the safe side. The words don't change the second time, but something in the easy warmth of the last hour curdles slightly at the edges, like milk left out too long.