Hate the Game - Winter Renshaw Page 0,55

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“I’m falling for you, Irie,” I whisper. “And I want you to know … I would never use you. I would never make you feel ashamed for enjoying something you have every right to enjoy …”

She kisses me back, her body melting against mine.

“I love you.” The words glide off my tongue, effortless and with an autonomy of their own, and nothing I’ve ever said has felt so right, but maybe that’s because they’ve been there all along, from the moment I laid eyes on her.

I’ve never believed in love at first sight, soulmates, or any of that bullshit—but that was before Irie Davenport walked into my life.

She pulls away, cupping my face in her gentle hands and depositing her wistful gaze on mine. “I … I love you too.”

Chapter 31

Irie

We lie under the stars, basking in silence and our shared confessions and new admissions. It doesn’t feel right to say anything more, to taint the complicated beauty of tonight with small talk.

“We should head back,” I say, gazing at a darkened sky. I don’t feel like dealing with my aunt’s wrath if I stay out too late. Despite the fact that I’m a grown woman, I’m staying at their house and fully expected to respect that curfew.

We stroll the three blocks back to my aunt and uncle’s house hand in hand relatively unrushed, and we stop at the rental car at the end of the driveway. All the other cars that were here earlier appear to be long gone and the house is mostly dark save for a few inside lights.

“I should probably go check into my room,” he says, his fingers twisted with mine as we face one another. “You’re welcome to stay with me …”

He made that same offer before, and as much as I’d love it, I can’t. “I need to stay with Bette.”

“All right,” he says, sighing as he leans in and tastes my mouth one last time tonight. “Call me in the morning.”

I amble up the driveway as he climbs into the driver’s side of the Nissan, and I sneak inside, reeling.

Every part of me is lit, alive in a way I’ve never known.

I feel unstoppable, giddy, and I couldn’t wipe this ridiculous smile off my face if I tried.

It’s a foreign sensation—all of it, but it doesn’t take long for me to realize …

… this must be what it feels like to be loved.

Chapter 32

Talon

We file into a pew in the middle of the church Saturday afternoon, next to a woman with an oversized hat and a man in a mothball-scented tweed suit. Their expressions are somber, mournful almost. But I think that’s just the way they look …

The place is covered in pale pink flowers and silver ribbons and a woman in the front plays How Great Thou Art on an organ. Irie says this is what weddings are like in Iron Cross—a hybrid between a marriage ceremony and a service, but with an odd funeral vibe to round it out.

“You excited?” Irie asks with a teasing wink. “You seem like the kind of guy who just loves a good Midwestern wedding.”

“Let’s be real: I’m just here to catch the bouquet.”

She laughs through her nose, but her smile fades the moment her attention skirts over my shoulders toward a clean-cut dark-haired man making his way down the aisle.

He takes a seat in the row behind us, a leggy brunette with glossy curls on his arm. The stench of his overpowering perfume is almost nauseating as it assaults the air around us. Irie’s hand is still in mine, only there’s a slight tremble to it.

It’s him.

Trey McAvoy.

Has to be.

I don’t think she’s afraid of him—I think his sheer presence brings out all the deep shit she’s been avoiding all these years.

I give her hand a tight squeeze before leaning in and whispering, “Fuck that guy.”

Her posture gives a little, and she relaxes against me, resting her head against my shoulder.

“I love you,” I whisper next.

“I love you too.”

Saying those words to her last night in the football field was the scariest fucking thing I’ve ever done—but once they were out, I’d never felt so liberated.

So I’m that guy now.

Drunk-in-love, drunk on her.

After a few more minutes, the pews fill all the way to the back, and the groom makes his way up front next to the preacher.

As soon as the music begins to change, five sets of bridesmaids and groomsmen march down the aisle, all of them carbon copies of one another. Honestly