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This guy has a presence that burns. His golden skin and dark hair remind me of the sun and soot.
Oxygen feeds flames.
I’m suddenly having trouble pulling enough out of the warm air, which should contain plenty.
I clear my throat and look away. Prolonged eye contact with him is more damaging than it would be with the sun.
This is a shorter break from Noah than I was hoping for.
I could actually get a soda, I guess. Returning empty-handed wasn’t a piece of the deception puzzle I thought through. Although I’m confident Noah will be too focused on the scrimmage to even notice my prolonged absence.
“Fine. I’ll move,” I say.
“Forget it.” The stranger folds his tall frame into the seat right beside me. His bare arm brushes mine as he settles into the plastic.
My every nerve ending feels it.
“Can’t believe people sit through a full game in these.” He shifts in the chair until he adopts the same pose I’m in—feet up and slouched down.
All he’s done so far is scowl at me. I should give him the silent treatment.
Instead, curiosity has me asking, “You haven’t been to many Kluvberg games?”
“This is my first one.”
His face is focused on the pitch. All I can see is his perfect profile, shaded by the brim of his hat.
I trace the straight lines and sharp angles with my eyes. His jaw is covered with a light layer of dark stubble, but it doesn’t do much—anything—to camouflage the fact that his bone structure would make a modeling scout weep. He’s wearing a black T-shirt and black athletic shorts. And he’s ridiculously in shape. I can see the definition of his broad shoulders and his strong thighs through the clothes he’s wearing. Watch the ripple of tendons as he reaches up for the brim of his ball cap and tugs it even lower. His left arm is covered with a sleeve of tattoos, the black ink a swirl of shapes I can’t make out in the short time I allow myself to ogle him before looking away, worried he’ll catch me checking him out. He seems intent on watching the game, but I can’t tell exactly where his eyes are looking behind the barrier of his aviator sunglasses.
His deep voice isn’t the only appealing thing about him.
Aside from his prickly personality and weird obsession with assigned seats, I haven’t found anything I don’t like about this stranger, which is disturbing.
Yeah, he’s ridiculously good-looking, but I’m not usually this superficial. Obvious beauty can hide other ugliness.
“You’re American?” I question.
“Yep.”
“What are you doing here, then?”
He looks over at me. Smirks.
And my brain sort of short-circuits because, wow, is he attractive. Attractive always, but especially when he’s amused.
I forget what I asked him. I just stare.
Suddenly, I’m grateful for the extra time I spent on my appearance this morning before I knew it’d be wasted on attending a football match. It’s gone mostly unappreciated by Noah, who has barely looked away from the pitch since we got here, completely enamored by the players while I hid yawns behind my hand.
“My dick got me in trouble,” the stranger tells me. Still looking this way. Still smirking.
Again, it feels like my lungs forgot how to breathe.
I shake off the bizarre reaction. I haven’t been the wide-eyed girl with a crush in a long time. I forgot what this giddiness felt like; it’s been so long since I wasn’t the one in control. Since I wasn’t begging my brain to stop overthinking and let go.
“Can’t relate,” I respond.
His smile grows, making me feel dizzy. My inhales and exhales still aren’t following a regular schedule.
