Play Along(58)

I opt for the former. “You thought I might need my hat at midnight?”

She hesitates, her not-so-smooth cover blown already as her attention roams over my bare chest. “Yes.”

“And you didn’t think you could wait and give it to me on the airplane in the morning?”

“You were um . . . having a bad hair day. I didn’t think you’d want to go out without it.”

“I’m never having a bad hair day, baby.”

She hands it over, but doesn’t leave, her feet still glued to my entryway mat.

Yes, she’s nervous and a bit uncomfortable. Maybe this is her first time ever putting herself out there for someone, but after three years of chasing the girl, I’m going to revel in the night she finally came to me.

“How’d you get my address, Ken?”

Her eyes flit away from mine. “I asked Miller for it.”

“So you could return my hat.”

“So I could return your hat.”

“And that’s the only reason you’re here?”

Her eyes find mine again, feigning confidence. “Yep. Glad I could avert that crisis for you.”

“And there’s absolutely no other reason you came over? Is there something you’re needing help with? A certain game you’d like to play tonight?”

She swallows, looking towards the elevator, but doesn’t move an inch. “I should go.”

“Then why aren’t you?”

A retort sticks in her throat, her brown eyes begging for me to make this easy for her. To ask her inside and not question her motives.

But I can’t. I want her to work for it. I need her to taste just a sample of the years of torture I’ve endured, wanting a woman I couldn’t have.

The difference is she can have me. She can have fucking all of me.

She only needs to ask.

After too many seconds pass, neither of us admitting what we really want, Kennedy starts for the elevator.

“Good night.” Her steps are quick, frantically carrying her away from me. Any faster and she’d be running. “See you at the airport.”

“Kenny,” I call out to stop her, stepping into the hallway. “Has anyone ever cooked for you?”

It’s an out because I’m a lovesick idiot who can’t stand to see her leave. I might talk a big game, but she will always have the upper hand when it comes to us.

Kennedy slows, turning to look at me over her shoulder and shaking her head to tell me no.

“Seems like something you should have on that checklist of firsts, huh? Probably want to experience it once before you find yourself back in the dating pool.”

“I guess we could do that. I hadn’t really planned on staying. I was just here to drop off your hat.”

I huff a laugh. “How someone could be so beautiful and so full of shit at the same time is astounding to me.”

Her smile blooms.

I motion towards my open door. “C’mon, Doc.”



“At what point are we going to talk about the signs?”

Kennedy sits on my couch—shoes, jacket, and hat discarded. Legs crossed under her body and auburn hair tied up in a knot that looks effortless, yet she tried three times for it to stay that way, so I know it wasn’t. Her bowl of spaghetti is already half gone, but I wish she’d eat slower. I’d like to obsess over the image of her cozy on my couch a little longer.

“I was planning to pretend as if they don’t exist, so eat your pasta like a good girl and stop scanning my apartment.”

Kennedy bursts a laugh. “How do you ignore the Live, Laugh, Love sign on your bedroom door or the fact there’s a Bless this Mess entryway mat just outside.” Her head falls back in contagious joy, that slender throat protruding against her fair skin. “You have a canvas painted with a glass of red wine hanging in your kitchen that says, ‘You had me at merlot.’ ”

I wasn’t impressed when the boys picked out my home décor, but now I’m thankful they chose the shittiest signs possible because I rarely get to see this woman laugh like this.

“Isaiah,” she giggles. “I didn’t peg you as an art collector. Is that what you’re doing with the millions you make every year?”

I can’t hold back my smile as I sit across the couch from her, bowl of spaghetti in one hand, fork in the other. “I lost our fantasy football league this year, and the boys each got to pick out a piece of décor that I have to keep displayed in my apartment for the year.”

“God, that’s genius. And just how many women have run for the hills since the makeover?”

Huh? “None.”

She playfully rolls her eyes. “Of course not.”

The only woman who’s been in this apartment since last summer is currently sitting on the couch right now.

“How’s the spaghetti?” I ask.

“So good.” She takes another bite, talking with her mouth full in the most un-Kennedy-like way. “I think I might want a second bowl.”

“I’m a fairly shit cook, but I have about three solid recipes in my arsenal and that’s one of them.”

“Are you going to make me the other two someday?”

“I’m sure you could talk me into that. But the spaghetti is my favorite. My mom taught me how to make the sauce when I was a kid.”