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Harper
Sweat skates down every muscle, every crevice, every solid indentation on the wall of his massive chest.
Blink.
Blink.
Blink.
His deep voice rumbles from above me and I look up, and up, until my eyes land on the face of dark, raw masculinity. “Did you hear a word I just said?”
No. I didn’t. I’m still gawking, mystified, while doing everything in my power to keep my mouth closed.
I’ve been privy to a lot of eye candy in my twenty years, but none had the jarring impact of the man standing in front of me. My first eyeful of him gives way to an electric shock. He’d been hitting the bag on the other side of the gym when I came in a few minutes ago, and I’d immersed myself in my dancing until he charged over and rudely shut off my speaker. Shaking my head, I peer into light grey eyes set under thick, dark, slashed brows and find myself caught in the tumultuous weather there. He snaps his fingers in front of my face. He’s pissed and I have no idea why. The man’s demeanor screams, “don’t fuck with me, this dog will bite.” Despite the dangerous air about him and his reputation, I’m not afraid of him. I’m more amped with him in my space than anything.
“You can’t run your drills or whatever you’re doing in here. I own this gym from six to nine on Wednesdays and Fridays.”
“Pleasure to meet you too. My name is Harper, it’s called dancing, and I was told—”
“Wrong,” he crosses bulging forearms along his expansive chest, “you were told wrong.”
“You don’t own this place,” I snap. “I have just as much of a right to be here as you.”
He doesn’t roll his eyes; he just looks up at the ceiling and leaves them fixed there as if trying to subdue his temper. As if I’m not intelligent enough to read the situation.
“You’re a jerk.” It sounds a little like a question coming out of my mouth, but I continue. “There’s a polite way of telling someone they’ve made a mistake.”
“Then whatever way that is, let’s pretend that’s how I said it. The gym is mine tonight.”
“There’s plenty of room, and it’s huge,” I point out. “There’s enough space for the two of us.”
“I’m not listening to that shit you call music,” he nods towards my Bluetooth speaker, “while I’m trying to concentrate.”
“Now my music is shit? You’re just dick out and ready for the pissing contest today, aren’t you, buddy? It’s a good thing you’ve got your looks and are decent with a ball or you wouldn’t get anywhere in life with that attitude.”
His lips tip up briefly, then the smile’s gone.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” I huff at the amusement still gleaming in his eyes. “I have no room in my life for another asshole.”
“Don’t flatter yourself. You’re not my type.”
“I’m sure I’m not. Anyone with an IQ to rival that inflated ego of yours would be too much hassle.”
“You don’t know a damn thing about me.”
“Lance Prescott, aka ‘The Blanket.’ Cornerback for Texas Grand, number twenty-two. TGU should have been your last pick, but I’m guessing you settled because campaigning yourself to a worthier school, with your temperament, would have blown your chances all to hell. I assume you took the easy route, figuring you’d defend your way onto a winning team.”
His brows lift higher with my every word. “Am I supposed to be impressed that you follow football?”
“I follow Grand ball. It’s in my blood.”
“Is there a point to this rant?”
“It’ll be a miracle if you get drafted.”
Too far, Harper!
But I don’t stop because today’s been a shit sandwich and he’s just served me a cup of fresh piss to wash it down with. My best friend, René, just got an audition to dance in an off-Broadway show. And while I’m truly happy for him—to work off the sting of jealousy—I came to this rinky-dink gym, only to be greeted by an entitled asshole.
Accusing eyes blaze a trail down my form. It’s always the legs they check out first. I was ble
ssed with a decent set of legs, an ass, killer metabolism, and good hair. That’s where the blessings end from my perspective. We’re all our own worst critics, but I have no grandiose illusions about my appearance. My nose—gifted from my mother—is too sharp in contrast with my father’s chin. I have dull brown eyes and lips on the thin side. It’s not low self-esteem talking; it’s acceptance. I work with what I’ve got, and as far as I’m concerned, it’s enough. I wasn’t born perfect, very few are, with the exception of the man in front of me.
Lance Prescott is a triple threat; face, body, and infuriating confidence. Three attributes every athlete needs to feel superior. It’s a formula that’s had panties dropping since the days of yore. I’m not into guys who hide behind any of it.
“Rumor had it last year that New England had their eye on you, but you have to stop letting your frustration best you if you’re hoping for any more draft talk.”
