Holy shit.
Does Meadow have a belly button ring? Clean, put-together, and rule-following Meadow?
I hope my eyes are just fucking with me because if she does, I’m a dead man walking. I would do just about anything to explore that tiny piece of jewelry with my lips, teeth, and tongue. Along with other places that would have her moaning my name…
Meadow spins around, saving me from my filthy thoughts.
“Did you win?” she asks, walking backward like she owns the walkway.
“Win what?”
“Your basketball game last night,” she replies bluntly. “The game you wouldn't shut up about all week.”
Right.
The rec league I play in.
It’s nothing serious, just a bunch of has-been athletes clinging to our glory days. It’s actually quite hysterical to watch us all in action. I love it, though. It’s one of the few things that gets me out of my head.
“Oh,” I recover. “Yeah, we won by twelve. I dropped twenty points, which means I’m basically the MVP of the game.” She rolls her eyes as I flash her an arrogant smirk.
“Wow,soheroic,” she fake yawns. “Did ESPN cover it?”
Smart-ass.
“Absolutely,” I shoot back with a grin. “Breaking News: Washed-Up Quarterback Attempts Another Sport and Doesn't Completely Suck.”
“Wow,” she retorts in a sarcastic tone. “You’re really making a name for yourself, Brooks.”
Brooks.
Fuck, there’s something about Meadow calling me by my last name. Most people call me Brooks, especially my college friends, but when Meadow does it, it sends my heart rate through the damn roof.
We inch forward, getting closer to boarding the plane. Meadow pulls her purse up her shoulder, causing her sweater to lift just enough to flash another view of her pale skin.
I can only imagine how soft she is there. I’ve thought about it more times than I care to admit. My palms actually itch to touch her—to know what she feels like sliding against me, skin to skin.
Get a grip, Owen.
Stop thinking with your dick and grow up.
A loudspeaker booms to life near the plane door, the flight attendant going on about a full flight and how to stow away our carry-on items. Meadow glances over her shoulder at me.
“You said our seats are together, right?”
“Yup,” I nod. “Window for you, aisle for me.”
“Good,” she murmurs, a hint of relief in her voice. “I swear, if I got stuck next to someone eating hard-boiled eggs or tuna salad, I’d open the emergency exit myself.”
One thing about Meadow Riley is that she’s extremely sensitive to smell. I’ll never forget the time I packed steamedbroccoli in my lunch, and I thought she was going to light my Tupperware on fire. Hell, I’m lucky she didn't file an HR complaint.
“Please don’t,” I tease. “I’m not a fan of heights. So you’re on your own if you jump.” She chuckles and shakes her head, completely used to my bullshit by now.
Seconds later, we’re finally boarding the plane. For good luck, I tap the aircraft's metal exterior before stepping into the stale air. I follow Meadow down the narrow aisle, full of impatient people, overly cheerful flight attendants, and a couple of crying babies.
Meadow moves gracefully, fully aware of everyone she passes. Her empathetic side shows as she apologizes to every person her bag barely bumps, gently saying “sorry” to the backs of the seats.
I love that about her.
