Page 120 of Chasing Headlines
Footsteps clicked and a loud jangle of metal. Keys in the door lock. My heart froze mid-contraction. “Hilda. Ohmigod. She can't—Ohmigod.” I shoved Coop, hard. I tugged on my shirtand pushed his tee and belt into his perfect and wonderfully warm chest. I managed to scramble to my feet just as the front door hedged open. Shaking hands smoothed my clothes, hoping nothing was so out of place it screamed: we were about to have sex on the floor.
“Hey.” Coop's voice rumbled. I didn't look at him. I met Hilda's eyes and flashed her a smile like nothing was wrong.
“How's the patient?” She called out as she turned, setting her purse on the entry table. My heart pounded. A bead of sweat trickled down the side of my face. I caught sight of my bra lying on top of the couch cushion and gasped.
“Let me guess. Stubborn as fuck?” Antonio closed the door. He leaned back against the panel, then straightened. A lop-sided, full-of-mischief grin slid over his features. “Well whaddya know? It only took being headbutted by a metal bull, but finally, some sense was knocked into him.”
I chuckled. “Oh, I dunno, what makes you think—” I couldn't lift my hand. I meant to run it through my hair, but it was caught.
In Coop's palm.
Where he was kneeling, and holding on to me.
Hilda tipped her head and frowned. “So when's the wedding?”
“Say cheese.” Antonio snapped a picture with his phone.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Olivia POV
Saturday
Ispent the rest of the day, naturally, doing research on concussions. Types of symptoms. Length of recovery. I couldn't take it. I'd made a fool out of myself. What if Hilda and Antonio had walked in on us . . . doing more than kissing?
God, I was an idiot. We couldn't stand each other, right? Every time I'd let myself believe he was something more than the king-sized jerk who hated reporters . . . He'd proved me wrong.
He protected me and gave me his shirt.
My stomach flipped.He also humiliated you.My gut twisted into a knot.But he comforted me when I was panicked and anxious.I groaned.And then ruined it all. How did everything get so mixed up?
I couldn't deny it, though. Some part of mewantedhim. It was that part of me that would make up excuses like: he's still grieving his mother. He's had a rough time and that reporter did kill his dreams.
And maybe all of that was even true. But I had more self-respect than to throw myself at a man who couldn't or wouldn’ttreat me well. I'd seen enough “unequal” relationships with my parents' bad choices, post-divorce.
I glanced at the closed door to my room where Hilda and Antonio were dealing with 'the patient'. I sunk into the couch, fatigue weighting my limbs and eyelids . . . I'd spent the night sitting beside him on the floor, the same way Coop had sat beside me in that maintenance closet. I sighed and drew my knees up to my chest. I checked the clock on my phone. The randomized wallpaper froze on the pic of me, Curt, and Dad—here, for Curt's graduation. Mom had been somewhere else with her latest boy toy.
Not to be outdone, Dad had brought his own “trophy” girlfriend. It was a nauseating dynamic. He practically treated them like children.
Mom, after Dad, had dated wildly different kinds of men. She seemed to prefer the alpha type, and I couldn't say I blamed her. There's something about their protective nature that I've always found appealing. But there's a marked difference between protective and domineering. And she kept mistaking one for the other.
I blinked, and the haze lifted. I caught the reflection of my face in the darkened screen. It wasn't a full image, just outlines and highlights—kind of like memories. Darker places were harder to see, acknowledge. But if I looked hard enough the detail was there.Haven't I been just as stubborn and abrasive toward Coop?
I winced.Probably.Still, as much as one part of me wanted to run into the other room, strip him naked and get toknowthe man who was Breslin Cooper. Another part of me worried that his uncharacteristicallyinterestedbehavior would dissipate with the swollen lump on his forehead.
And still another part of me wondered if we could ever really start over and get along—even as friends, before we tried to, well,do more physical things. On floors. Between sheets. Maybe a shower.
My rando sexual fantasy about a steam room . . . Oh God, how could that aggravating man be so damned hot? That chest was made for magazine covers, steamy romance stories, running my tongue all over . . .
I hid my face in my knees. Ok, so I may have reada few too manysports romance novels in high school. “They” say it’s not a problem unless said reader starts to have unrealistic expectations of romantic partners. So far, I just wanted us to be nicer to each other.If that's unrealistic . . . There has to be someone else out there for me.
That thought turned my stomach to lead and crushed the air from my lungs. I let the pain echo inside me, aggravating an aching wound. A longing I couldn't name. I just . . . wanted.
I laid down on the couch. I needed a quick power nap, the lack of sleep made everything raw and heavy. I closed my eyes and could swear I felt his breath against my skin.
“You're so sexy.”
My body threatened to melt into goo. I willed the memory away.