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The first had a stocky build, thick neck, and squarish, bluntly good-looking features. The second had less bulk, like Ryan and Mike, with eyes so wide and dark I could see them clear across the room.
For a moment, I thought they were going to cross the lobby without anyone approaching them, even though I noticed as women crossed their legs so their skirts rose up higher, and a couple guys shouted out congratulations.
Then two guys crossed the empty space and started in on what I could only assume was an instant replay of the game just completed. Like that, the dam was broken, and they were surrounded by well-intentioned fans. Mostly, I watched the girls, fascinated by how much they threw themselves. While some hovered in the background, nervously, others squeezed through gaps and flirted outrageously.
Hmm. Well. I supposed if I’d had a group of good-looking, well-groomed guys competing outrageously for my attention, all the time, I might have turned out rather like Ryan had.
The bigger guy laughed, throwing his head back, as a girl tucked a piece of paper in his belt. As he lowered his head, he stared straight across the room. Another grin, a more sincere version, flashed across his face, and he excused himself and started heading toward the little café.
I jerked my gaze away, and focused on Alexa. “Is it just me, or is that guy headed straight for us?”
Her cheeks pinkened. “Uh, no, it’s not just you.”
In two more seconds he was standing before us, grinning so hard two dimples showed up on either side of his big smile. “Well, hello, Alexa. Fancy seeing you here.”
Alexa stared at the table, and then raised her face with a pained smile. “Hi, Matt. Did you guys win?”
“What, you weren’t watching, heart in your throat? What kinda fan are you?” He pulled up a chair, swiping his shaggy brown hair off his forehead with one huge hand, and then flashing a smile at me. “Who’s your friend?”
“Uh—this is Rachael Hamilton. She’s helping me with my book.”
“That’s great. You also a writer?”
“No, I work on the publishing end.” My head pinged back and worth, fascinated by this interplay. How did Alexa know this guy? “So—you play for the Ann Arbor Bisons?”
“Yeah, that’s right. You a fan?”
I spread my hands apologetically. “I live in New York. I’m pretty sure that’s not allowed.”
“Oh, come on.” He leaned toward me, body language open and inviting. “We’re way more attractive than any of the New York teams.”
I laughed outright. “I never knew players were so vain. But I know half a dozen Leopards who would knock you over for saying that.”
Alexa stared at me. “I thought you didn’t follow football.”
“I don’t,” I said cheerfully. “I just hear about it an awful lot.”
Matt’s interest visibly rose. “Who do you know?”
“Oh—Malcolm Lindsey, Abe Krasner. Ryan Carter.” I tried not to infuse his name with any extra emotion.
“And you didn’t watch the game either? For shame, ladies.” He shook his head. “For shame. Are you dating one of them?”
He certainly moved quickly. “I’m sorry, what’s your name again?” I smiled to take the edge off. “I don’t think we’ve actually been introduced.”
“Matt Barrett.” He reached across the table and pumped my hand in a warm, strong grip that lingered a little longer than polite. “You two coming out to Turquoise tonight?”
I raised my brows at Alexa in amusement, trying to telecommunicate who is this guy? And what was Turquoise?
Alexa didn’t meet my gaze. She’d fixed on something across the lobby, and now she squared her shoulders and refocused on Matt. She unleashed a brilliant smile at him, the kind so blinding they ought to be regulated. “Yes.” She sounded more determined than I had heard since we stopped talking about the book. “In fact—I have a couple bottles of champagne we were going to start with before heading over. Care to join us?”
I eyed Alexa. Where had this come from? I liked her, but did she really expect me to join her and some random football dude for drinks? I had a pseudo-date to plan.
But she now gave me such a desperate, pleading look as I hesitated, and I couldn’t say no. “Yeah. You should join us.”
From the other side of the table, a new voice said, “I think I will, too.”
Alexa jerked so badly she almost upset the drinks. I swung my gaze from her to the newcomer. It was the other player, his dark hair curling slightly, his dark eyes blank. Definitely good-looking, but so solemn I thought he’d do better as a Byronic artist than a football player. He gazed at Alexa like a parched man gazing at water he knew could only be a mirage.
