I should be, but not about the car. I’d let her total the thing if it meant I got to keep this—her driving me home, her laughing at my dumbass teammates,her in my jersey.
She puts the car in reverse and heads back to her apartment. Now I’m trying to figure out how to get her to ask me to stay.
“My last boyfriend nearly took my head off when I asked to drive his truck.”
“Sounds like a dick,” I scoff. “Who was it?”
“Jacob Pearlman,” she replies.
“Stupid name.”
“Agreed. He was a stupid guy, so it tracks.”
“Well, yeah, anyone who lets you get away is an idiot.” The most delicious pink blush creeps up her cheeks. I’m pushing the envelope with every statement I make insinuating that I want more than what she’s allowed so far.
She parks in front of her building and exhales through her nose, like she’s debating something with herself.
Then she flicks her eyes toward me—deliberate, decisive.
“You should probably come in. Sleep off the drinks,” she says, avoiding eye contact.
“Right,” I reply. “Of course.”
“I can’t let you get behind the wheel of a car in your state,” she says carefully.
I let a smile tug at my lips, agreeing quickly. “No, definitely not.”
I open my door, step out, and follow her inside. I’m pretty sure we both know I’m not drunk or even tipsy anymore, but the ball is in her court.
Chapter Nineteen
Monroe
Now that Rhodes is actually inside my apartment, I panic.
Not outwardly, but internally, where my thoughts start racing, where my pulse starts hammering against my ribs like it’s trying to break out.
What am I doing?
“I’ll go get you some…” I look around the room, trying to decide what my end goal is here. “I’ll go get you some pillows.”
Rhodes huffs a quiet laugh, leaning back against the wall like he’s got all the time in the world. “Perfect. Just what I want.Pillows.”
My face burns. Again. Twice in one night, I’ve turned into some flustered schoolgirl version of myself, and Rhodes is eating it up. I spin on my heel and escape down the hallway, toward the closet.
With the pillows secured, I turn around, intending to go back and prepare a bed on my couch, when I smack straight into Rhodes’ muscled chest. I squeak and stumble backward, dropping the pillows to the floor. He steps predatorily toward me, kicking them out of the way, until my back meets the wall, cool against my overheated skin. Rhodes tilts my chin up to look at him.
Slow. Deliberate.
“Hi, Monroe.”
His voice is a low rasp, and it’s not a question. It’s a statement, a challenge, a claim all wrapped in one.
I swallow hard, my breathing uneven.
“Hi, Rhodes,” I whisper. “Thanks for the save at the bar tonight.”
I’m trying to fill the space between us, and I never did properly thank him for getting rid of that creep. His hand slides lower, fingertips grazing the hem of my jersey.