Hands shaking, I keep them firmly linked together, the temptation to reach for him too strong.
“But you don’t have those same feelings, the same thoughts, do you, Em? Because this relationship we had, I was always all in when you had one foot out.”
I grind my teeth together. “Stop insulting me.” I push my fingers against his chest. “Stop treating my feelings as meaningless.” I poke him again, but this time he clamps his hand over my fingers, sending a bolt of lust straight up my arm as he drags me closer to him. “Stop—” I suck in a deep breath when his other hand wraps around my waist.
“Stop what? Pushing you to admit the truth, that breaking up with me was the worst decision of your life?”
Because he stands at least a foot taller than I am, I glance up into his smoldering eyes as they search mine. The usual light pools of blue I memorized in my head are a dark, stormier color, casting a sense of warning over me. His face is sharper, his grip stronger, his voice deeper as he demands answers from me.
“Just admit it, Em.”
“Why? So you can tell yourself you were right?”
“Yes.”
“No,” I say while pushing him away, but he snags my wrist and spins me around so I’m pressed against the wall of the tiny office. His hand presses into my hips as his gaze roams my body, the heat between us crackling like fire embers, ready to ignite into something bigger.
“If you won’t admit to it, then tell me this . . . do you still have feelings for me?”
He moves his head closer, stilling the air around us as his heavenly scent spins and twists my stomach into knots. After eight years of barely any contact, of trying to avoid seeing this man, it’s as if his presence has unlocked a flood of emotions, and I’m slowly drowning in them, one breath at a time.
His question hangs between us as I try to comprehend what to say. Do I still have feelings for him? The truth is, I never lost them. Always in the back of my mind, in the back of my heart, I carried a gauntlet of feelings for this man. And no matter who I dated or how hard I tried to forget, he was always a part of my life, a piece of who I am.
“If I did . . . what would you do? Laugh in my face, tell me I told you so, and storm out of this room?”
If I didn’t think his eyes could narrow more, I was wrong.
“If you really think this is a trap to prove you wrong, you’re widely off base.” His grip tightens. “This isn’t a trap. This is a test.”
“A test?” I ask as his hips press against mine. I suck in a sharp breath as my body instantly melts into his, my wobbly legs barely holding me up. “What kind of test?”
His hands move up my arms, over my shoulders, to my neck where his calloused and rough fingers grip my jaw. Eyes intent on mine, electricity bouncing between us. The old flame that burned bright in college reigniting.
“This kind of test,” he says right before angling my mouth up and pressing his lips against mine. It’s a soft peck at first, as if he’s making sure I’m not about to run, but when I hold still, he deepens the kiss and the hold he has on me.
Soft, yet different, with a sense of desperation I’ve never felt from him before, his lips carefully move across mine before his tongue parts my lips and dives forward. My hands slink around his neck. My body presses into his. Flashbacks of our time together hit me square in the chest.
When I first truly met him on the quad. That smile when he peeled the map off his face.
That first kiss, in the dining hall when everyone around us faded away.
The night he held me when I had a migraine.
The parties.
The joking.
The lust-filled glances.
It’s like a memory reel on fast forward, spinning through my mind as I sink into the most delicious pair of lips I’ve ever tasted.
I’ve missed this. How could I not when I never stopped loving him? He wasn’t a college fling, or a steppingstone to the next man in life, because Knox will always be the man.
His mouth slows, his tongue gradually dragging over mine before he pulls out and takes a step away, leaving me pinned against the wall, chest heaving, nipples aching for his touch.
In disbelief of what he did, he takes one more step back, as if he doesn’t trust himself.
“Fuck,” he says under his breath while turning around. “Fuck,” he says a little louder.
“Knox—”
“I swear to God, Em, if the next words out of your mouth are we shouldn’t have done that, I’m going to lose my motherfucking shit.” His back is tense, his shoulders practically kissing his ears from the tension in them.
“I wasn’t going to say that.”
“Then what were you going to say?” He turns to face me, stress written all over his gorgeous face.
He’s struggling. He doesn’t want to want me, but he does. I can see the indecision in his eyes with a small hint of need.
I have a decision to make, another big one. I can either walk away from this man, and try to set him free from this hold we have on each other, or I can put my heart on the line and try to make something of this serendipitous moment.
I take a deep breath and say, “I was going to say . . . will you go on a date with me tonight?”
Chapter Thirty-Four
KNOX
Deep breath.
I stare at my bat and tune out the crowd, the beat of the music trying to pump up the fans in the ninth inning. We’re down by one, and I have shit to show for today’s game.
Letting out a deep breath, I step into the batter’s box and get into position.
Pederson, Toronto’s closer, has been lights out all season, and being that I’m two deep in the count, he might just have another K under his belt soon.
He looks over to first where Dunn is leading off, cautious not to get picked, because we’re in the bottom of the ninth and getting picked off at first with no outs while down by one is a cardinal sin.
Pederson winds up then delivers his side-arm throw right into the zone. I swing and hit air, the sound of the ball clapping against the catcher’s mitt ringing through my ear.
Motherfucker.
I rip off my helmet and yell into it as I make my way into the dugout. When I reach the stairs, I trot down them quickly, ignoring the glare of my coach, tossing my bat, helmet, and gloves near the helmet cubbies, and make my way toward the end of the dugout where I grab a drink.
What a fucking shit game. I can’t remember the last time I played this shitty. And it’s all because my past came back to haunt me.
I still can’t fucking believe Emory has lived in Chicago this whole time.
This whole fucking time.
I’d like to say I wasn’t still pining for a small moment with the girl of my dreams, but that would be a lie.
“Dude, what the fuck is going on with you today?” Carson asks, coming up to me. “You’re acting like this is your first time hitting in the big leagues.”
I drag a towel over my face, keeping my voice low around the cameras. “My head’s not in the game.”
“No shit.”
The crowd erupts, and we look to the field where Flores just hit a single, advancing the runner. At least someone’s contributing to the team today.
“What’s going on?” he asks, looking gravely concerned.