Me: That she fell in love with you.

Me: And she’s now pissing herself, knowing she’ll have new baggage over losing out on someone she doesn’t deserve, but she’s hoping he’ll give her one more chance?

Me: Because she’s a lot more sane. Promise.

Me: Because she really is working on herself now and she’s just really hurting and sad, but she has love in her to give and she knows if you can just put up with the void inside of her that may never go away, she’s hoping you’ll deem her worthy enough for a second chance?

Me: I’m talking about me, by the way. Just making that clear, because talking in third person probably doesn’t help sell the whole ‘I’m more sane here’ premise.

Damn!

I sent another flurry of texts because I couldn’t stop myself.

Me: And beware with your rejection. I’m a reformed stalker, but the reform could be temporary.

Reese: Are.

Me: What would happen if a camel was born with three humps? Deformity or evolution?

I was faintly aware of Trent’s phone buzzing beside me. I kept on. I was committed now. Good luck on knowing when I’d stop.

Me: Thoughts on ending poaching worldwide?

Me: Rugby or football?

Me: American football or the real football?

Me: Favorite book? Besides your playbook.

Me: Why are manatees so cute?

Reese: You?!

Me: Who’d win in an ocean selfie contest? Dolphin or manatee?

Me: Seahorses don’t look anything like real horses. Discuss.

Me: Who really puts together the DSM? Do we actually need all those volumes?

Me: What do you think—

A hand rested over mine, stopping my text in mid-type.

“What?”

I was almost desperate to get these questions out, but Trent wasn’t looking at me. He nodded toward the front of our box. “Look.”

I did, my insides a hurricane, tsunami, and let’s throw in a few tornadoes. All were happening. All at once, and they were inflicting horrific damage, but there he was. Standing just at our entrance, his glasses still on and a firm scowl fixed on those so-kissable lips.

I held the phone up once more.

Me: Can you even see with those sunglasses?

He read the text, shaking his head, and I saw a crack. His top lip curved up, but it was flat the next second. He shoved his phone into his pocket, took mine, and grabbed my hand.

“Let’s go,” he said.

Trent tossed him a set of keys. Reese caught them, giving him a nod.

Then we were leaving.

He walked me down the hallway.

Hand in hand.

His face forward.

He wasn’t looking at me, and I couldn’t help myself. The texting had unleashed something in me.

“You had a girl on your lap.”

I didn’t mean it to come out accusing—no, no, I totally did. Let’s be honest here. I was seeing green and red at the same time. It was Christmas in the nightclub.

Reese’s hand tightened over mine. He spared me a brief glance, and then his phone was out and he was using his other hand to type on it.

“She grabbed me when we came in. I let her stay because I thought the guys would leave me alone then. Chicks on laps usually do that, unless they’re hoping for a share.”

Oh. God. What I could do with that one from him.

I gulped, only asking with a bite, “Do you usually share?”

He stopped. I almost slammed into him from the abruptness, and he rotated around.

“No,” he clipped out, taking the sunglasses off and shoving them into his pocket. “Do you?”

I reared my head back. “Are you kidding me? I would never not be texting then. Everyone would be getting the texts.”

He grinned, just slightly, and it made my heart flip over.

He shook his head, starting forward again as his phone flashed. “You are truly insane.”

I snorted. “That’s been established. Long ago. Keep up.”

We were at the front of the club. He paused before stepping out. A few people had gone past us in the hallway, and only a couple had stopped to look back at him, but it was different now. He was going out into an open area, and beyond that, there were more people. If the press knew almost the entire Seattle Thunder team was at Whisper, they’d for sure be camped outside.

He cursed.

I tsked him, grinning from the side of my mouth, because—another truth bomb here—I was feeling a little maniacal. “Where’s the hood? It’s like you don’t know how to do this whole celebrity thing.”

He laughed shortly, but mostly ignored me, staring out. He checked his phone again.

“What are you doing?”

He showed me. “I called a driver.”

The dot was getting close. We were going to make a mad dash.

I was thrilled.

I pushed the phone back at his chest. “I know I joke about being crazy, and there’s a little truth in there, but I can turn on the Crazy if you need it. People stay away from Crazy, unless they are too, and no one’s going to out themselves as that level of Crazy here. I can raise the bar if you need me to.”

He stared down at me, and it finally happened.

He’d been all hard and ice and monotone, a wall over his face, but at my suggestion, some of it melted away. A small grin tugged at his mouth, and he placed a hand on the small of my back.