The Game That Breaks Us (Us 3)

She looks around, and I wonder what this place looks like from her eyes. Probably pretty plain. The walls are white and gray and the kitchen has the same color scheme topped off with stainless steel appliances.

The floors are all some sort of dark hardwood—no rugs. My couch sits in front of a large flat-screen TV and every gaming console I could get my hands on. There’s a wall of windows across from us that overlooks the city of Boston. It’s the reason I bought an apartment in this building: the view is unparalleled.

Grace crosses her arms over her chest and looks out the windows.

“It’s beautiful,” she comments.

I step up beside her, our arms brushing against each other, and I swear she shivers.

“It is,” I agree.

But I’m looking at her.

I’m always looking at her.

“Wanna watch a movie?” Bennett asks, moving away from the window.

I know I should go to bed, but tomorrow is Saturday, so I don?

?t have to be up early. “Sure.” I shrug. “But let me go change into something comfier.”

He grins. “Oh, right, your sexy PJs.”

I smack the back of his head, and he laughs uproariously.

“Where can I change?” I ask, looking around.

“Oh, right.” He grabs my bag and leads me down the hall to a bedroom. He turns on the light and steps back after putting my bag on the bed. “My room’s the one at the end of hall. Your bathroom is just across.” He taps the closed door.

“Thanks.” I close the door behind him so I can change.

The bedroom is plain with white walls and oak furniture. The bedding is a basic gray that matches the color scheme of the rest of the house. But considering this is a bachelor pad, I guess it’s better than it could be. I mean, there could be a pinball machine in here.

I close the blinds and change out of my clothes into a pair of sleep shorts and a loose shirt. I add a pair of knee-high socks because I’m always freezing.

I find Bennett sitting on the couch, changed into a pair of sweatpants—shirtless.

Kill me now.

The man’s body is a work of art between all his muscles—seriously, hockey must be really good for the body—and the tattoos. There’s a spear between his shoulder blades and I wonder if he got it to represent the Plymouth Hunters.

He looks up when he hears me. “What do you want to watch?”

“You pick. I’ll probably fall asleep anyway.” I yawn as if to prove my point. I sit down beside him, careful to keep a distance between us.

He notices and shoots me a shit-eating grin. “What are you afraid of, Princess? That if you get too close you won’t be able to get enough? Come on, you can look … and lick if you want.”

“You’re so gross.” I push his shoulder and he falls back cackling.

Then, just because I can, I grab his arm and lick his firm bicep over a tattoo of a leaf.

He laughs even louder. “That’s not what I meant for you to lick,” he chortles.

I blush and mumble, “I know.”

He touches my cheek, and I reluctantly lift my eyes to his. He stares at me intensely, and for a moment, I think he’s going to kiss me, but just as quickly, he pulls away and says, “I’m picking Snow Dogs.”

“What?” I say, confused. “Wait, the moving with Cuba Gooding Jr.?”