The Guy in the Middle (The Underdogs, #3)

by Kate Stewart

“Now my music is shit? You’re just dick out and ready for the pissing contest today, aren’t you, buddy?

“Damn,” she whispers with a grin, shaking her head when she pulls away. “It’s a good thing I know better about you.” “Yeah, what’s that?” I can’t help the edge to my voice. I’ve dealt with enough judgment for one day. “I just know if I catch feelings, I’ll be messing up.”

“Did you just manipulate me into breaking up with you?” She shakes her head and snorts. “Unbelievable,” her laughter tinged with incredulity. “You son of a bitch, you totally did. Lord help the woman you fall for.”

“You really should do something about that.” I glance back at him. “About what?” “About that thorough fucking you need.”

Loosen up, Priss, or you’re going to find yourself with your own shitty reputation.” “Says pot to the kettle. Stay out of my way, Prescott.” “No problem, sweetheart.” “Don’t bother with the pleasantries now, you basically just called me an uptight bitch.” “If the Nike fits.”

“Whatcha thinking about over there, Priss?” “Nothing, enjoy your…whatever.” I lift my fingers as if I’m tipping a hat and give her a slow, suggestive wink. Red-faced, she heads to her side of the box.

She’s a good girl, that much I’m sure of. Though she’s quiet, there’s an inkling of something in her eyes, her stare, that I’m all too familiar with. There’s a lion inside that little lamb, and if that was an invitation—I’m all too ready to unleash her.

“Because I think about you. A lot lately.” She pauses her drink halfway to her mouth and stares down at me before recovering. “I’m thinking it’s not about my sharp wit or pizza ordering capabilities.” “It’s not like you’ve given me much of a chance to get to know you, Priss.” “Well, it’s not like you’re the most receptive man in the world with your mastery of resting bastard face.”

Because underneath him I feel perfect, not just adequate or passable. I feel precious. I feel beautiful.

I’d be his personal whore to keep this feeling. No wonder women make this a bad habit. I can see the appeal.

I share a reassuring grin with him as he leaves the room, burying my fears beneath that smile. It’s only when I hear his footfalls on the stairs that I let the tears slip. But they aren’t tears of regret or pain. They’re tears that let me know I made the right decision by choosing Lance Prescott, no matter where that decision leads us.

“I just don’t want to cost you something I can’t replace, Lance.” “What if it’s you?”

“Without a doubt. You’re the best investment I’ve ever made.”

“She’s a six at most, why are you wasting time with a six?” “Add five to that.” “What?” “She’s my eleven.”

“Between being a realist, believing only what you can see, and believing in what you can’t, entrusting faith.” She turns to look up at me, but my gaze remains on the statue. “It’s you,” she says softly beside me, grabbing my hand, “it’s the way I’ve always seen you, Lance, with the whole world on your shoulders, but never aware of just how much you shine. It’s like you’re paralyzed by the weight when just a few steps away,” she nods toward the church, “you can accept a little faith and just let some of it go.”

I’m fighting like hell not to lose my shit. “I need you to forgive me.” “For? What’s wrong, Lance?” “I foolishly forgot just how magical you are. Harper,” I manage, “baby, that was incredible.”

“I think what mattered to me most about coming here is that I never got a chance to say I love you. And I do, I love you, Harper.”

Gloves down, I stand there taking her in, her solid body toned to perfection, her skin porcelain, twin braids hanging loosely from her beanie, dancing over her shoulders with her movement. All I want is to grab her and fuck her up, with my lips, my tongue, my cock, the way she’s fucking with me. I’m in the mood to punish her, and it’s apparent she feels the same.

I make it back to my room, I see two hot pockets and a Diet Mountain Dew waiting on my dresser that my hopes fall away. He dropped the food and left like I’m some sort of prisoner. And I have to admit, loving him is starting to feel like a sentence.

“Are you telling me to go seduce your son with apple pie?” “Whatever gets me a grandchild.”

“You don’t want this. You don’t know what you’re asking. You don’t want to know this level of depravity.”

I’ll stand my ground, but I can only stand so much punishment.

“I don’t have the words! I still don’t have the fucking words! Tell me what they are. P-please, tell me what they are.”

“What if this moment, right here, is the one that changes your life?”