Brains Behind the Puck

Nicholas Sparks

The sun's barely up, but I'm wide awake, my head on Alex's chest, listening to the steady thump of his heart. Damn, this feels too good. Like, we-just-had-the-best-sex-ever good. Not that I'm complaining, but the last thing I want is to move right now. Nope. Not happening. His arms are wrapped around me like he's afraid if he lets go, I'll disappear. And honestly, I feel the same way.

I shift slightly, careful not to wake him, but his grip tightens, pulling me even closer. "Don't even think about it," he growls, voice rough from sleep. There's an edge there, like last night didn't even scratch the surface.

"Seriously?" I smile against his chest, letting out a soft sigh. "You can't stay glued to me forever, Hawthorne. At some point, we have to get out of bed. You do know that, right?"

"Why the hell would I want to move?" His voice is all low and rough, like he's already decided we're not getting out of bed for the next twenty-four hours. "Everything I need is right here. You."

My pulse quickens, a sarcastic retort forming, but his touch is distracting in the best way possible.

Well, damn. How am I supposed to argue with that?

I shift and Alex tugs my back, his hand sliding over my hip. "I think you're trying to escape."

I raise an eyebrow. "Maybe I am."

He leans in closer, his lips ghosting over my ear. "You can try, Sunshine. But heads up—I'll always catch you."

Oh, for the love of— I swallow the sarcastic retort because honestly? His touch is distracting in the best possible way, and damn it, that smug grin of his should be illegal. And okay, maybe I don't actually want to escape. But that's not the point.

"Run all you want," Alex murmurs, his voice still dripping with smugness. "I'll always win."

It's a good thing I'm lying down because I'm pretty sure my legs have turned into jelly at this point. But I won't let him see that. Nope. This is a no-swoon zone, no matter how ridiculously sexy he's being.

But beneath the cocky remarks, I can feel it—the weight of last night still lingering between us. Not the part about where we stand—we've said it all already. But that look in his eyes, the one that says his mind hasn't stopped turning, trying to figure out a way to make this work. He's searching for solutions because, apparently, running away from fights isn't in Alex Hawthorne's vocabulary.

I shift up onto my elbow, my fingers trailing over the hard lines of his chest. "Uh oh, I see that face. You're doing that thing again, Hawthorne." "Doing what?" He plays dumb, but I can see the way his jaw tenses, the way his gaze shifts.

"That brooding thing you do." I raise an eyebrow, giving him a pointed look. "You know, the one where you look like you're solving world hunger or plotting world domination."

He lets out a soft laugh, but it doesn't reach his eyes. His hand moves up my back, tangling in my hair as he meets my gaze. And there it is—that intense look, like he's putting together a puzzle, working through all the things we didn't solve last night.

"I'm not planning world domination," he says quietly, voice rough around the edges. "Just... thinking. About us. About making this work."

Ah. There it is. I knew it.

And there it is. The big, scary what now? we've been dodging like the plague. My heart clenches, but I force myself to play it cool because, apparently, I'm now the kind of person who talks about their feelings instead of, you know, running in the opposite direction. Thanks, Alex Hawthorne. Really, I was doing great not confronting the terrifying unknown until you waltzed in and made me care.