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I refused to gape, even though I wanted to. What did coy even mean anymore? It conquered up images of Betty Boop, flitting her lids at unsatisfied suitors. “I’ve never played coy.”
“So let me get this straight—you don’t play games, and you’re comfortable sleeping around, even with guys like your ad man who you don’t particularly like.” He raised his brows. “Which means the only reason you wouldn’t sleep with a guy you’re crazy attracted to is if you actually are worried about society’s standards, since it doesn’t bother you, personally.”
Wait, how had I gotten into this tangle? Now if I said I wouldn’t sleep with him I’d basically be weakening my argument for sexual equality. “Maybe I’m just not attracted to you.”
His lips curved, his eyes chastening me for lobbing such an easy ball. “Bull.” He polished off his drink, and even his throat was corded and golden. “Admit it. You have issues. You’d never just sleep with a guy for fun. Probably made the ad boyfriend up.”
“I did not!” I shouted. The words echoed in the huge room. “For all you know, I sleep with a different guy every night!”
He put down his wine glass and stepped over to where I leaned against the kitchen island. “Go ahead then. Prove me wrong.”
I wanted to. I wanted to wrap my fingers around the back of his neck and pull him forward. I wanted to dig my fingers into his hair, scrape my nails down his back, feel his lips on my mouth and my ear and my neck. I wanted him.
He knew it, too, and his mouth curved in victory. His eyes locked on mine, heady with desire, as he angled his head down. “I thought so,” he whispered, his breath soft and touched with wine.
He thought what?
He thought I was messing with him. Playing games.
And he had just manipulated the hell out of me. I twisted away.
He jerked back. “What the hell?” The strain in his voice made me glance up. For a second, he looked bewildered, but he quickly masked it with anger. “Are you serious?”
“This just isn’t a good idea.”
“Really,” he said flatly. “Why the hell not? You’re attracted to me but you won’t even kiss me?”
“You’re right. I have issues. Happy?” And I was furious he’d tried to play me into sleeping with him. I grabbed my purse and my jacket. “I have to go.”
“Whatever.” He yanked open the fridge door and grabbed a beer. I opened my mouth to say something, anything else, and realized the tip of my tongue was, for once, empty.
So I suited up and left his apartment. And it took every ounce of will power not to slam his ridiculously expensive door.
Chapter Eight
“I have to admit,” John said Sunday afternoon, “I was surprised when you called.”
“What can I say?” I told him as we walked down the stadium steps. “I do love a good game.”
The only football field I’d ever set foot on had belonged to Ashbury High, and I’d been only twice: at graduation and for Homecoming my senior year. My friend Carly lost out on Homecoming Queen to Sophie Salisbury. We weren’t too surprised. Carly had the science kids, the actors, and the artsy students, but Sophie had the jocks.
In college, we’d been too busy getting liberal arts degrees to look at the sports teams.
The Leopards’ Stadium was in Chelsea, built over rail yards between Penn Station and the Hudson River. It had been raised in the ’90s, partly for an Olympic bid that fell through. I’d never been inside, and the size of it shocked me. Seventy-five thousand seats rose sharply around the long stretch of bright green turf. Tiny people streamed into the neatly divided sections, mere blurs of predominantly red and black. Above, white light fixtures and advertisements gleamed down at us, while screens were interspersed throughout the stadium.
John led me through the slowly moving crowd to his family’s season seats, saying hello to one or two people on the way. I sat down, feeling a little nervous and uncomfortable. Going out with John just to prove to Ryan that I did watch football—when I didn’t—and that I was happy using a guy for sex—when I wasn’t—was much less appealing when I was actually on the date. “So,” I asked once we were settled. “Do you follow football? Closely?”
He tossed popcorn into his mouth. “Close enough. My dad took me to a couple games when I was younger. Now, of course, I’m usually too busy with work to come watch them. It’s very time-consuming, after all. This week I had to meet with Karl Peppington—you know, of the Park Avenue Peppingtons—but I didn’t mind, since we really hit it off. He thought I was very funny. You should have seen...”
My brain closed down as he started on about the ad agency. When I’d first met him, I’d found his unceasing conversation engaging, but by the ill-fated third date I’d realized that John never paused to ask me anything about my job, except as a mere nicety, and that he cared more for an audience than a partner in conversation.
This had been a bad idea. I couldn’t exactly show Ryan up when he wasn’t here to see John with his arm thrown casually around my shoulders.
But that wasn’t how I should be viewing this. No, instead this was a practice in sexuality, proof that I didn’t have walls like China and that I could sleep around with the best of them. No prudes here!
Uh-huh.
John stopped speaking when the announcer started. The players jogged onto the field, streaming through sparklers and a fog machine and a line of jacketed men in matching colors. Around me, the crowds cheered on cue, with all the energy and delight a Broadway audience would pour into a standing ovation, even though the performance hadn’t even started.
