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For the second time that day, I found myself speechless.
“Julia, this is Jonathan Smithson,” Dylan introduced.
“Hi. Julia Thatcher. It’s nice to meet you, Jonathan.”
“Just call me Red,” he said, sticking out a hand to shake.
And I thought Dylan was a boulder of a man. Red was enormous, a few inches taller and significantly stronger, practically a mountain. His black hair was longer on top with a clean undercut, his hazel eyes reminding me of the color of honey and summertime. His muscles were less defined, but there was no questioning his strength. I could feel it in his careful grip as we shook hands, his fingers enveloping mine. His skin was sweaty from a hard workout, his tattoo-covered chest on full display.
Oh, my my…
It took every ounce of my mental strength to string a proper sentence together. “Why do they call you Red?”
“Because he’s red-green color blind,” the other fighter said with a cheeky smirk. “He didn’t find out until he went for his driver’s test and ran through all the red lights.”
I fought my smile, doing my best to be professional. “Oh, that’s… terrible. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t worry,” he said, totally straight-faced. “I think it’s funny.”
I honestly couldn’t tell if he was joking or not. I was frankly too busy marveling at the fact that he was still holding my hand. The realization sent a thrill rushing through me, a subtle heat pooling within my core.
“Dude,” the other man said, clearing his throat. “Give her her hand back.”
Red pulled away and cast his eyes to the ceiling. What he was looking at, I couldn’t be sure. I decided it was best to move to his companion.
“I’m assuming you must be Cash?” I asked, shaking his hand.
“The one and only.” He flashed me a toothy grin, his smile crinkling the corners of his breathtakingly crisp blue eyes.
Oh, my my my!
Cash was the shortest of the trio but still taller than me by a good foot or so. His body was a work of art, both literally and figuratively. There wasn’t an inch of his skin that wasn’t covered in tattoos.
He was nothing except hard muscles beneath taut skin, his biceps and chest and abs all perfectly chiseled.
Cash had kind eyes and an easy smile, which was a lot easier for me to read than his friend, though they were both equally successful at making my heart race.
“Let me guess,” I said. “A fan of Johnny Cash?”
“Everyone thinks that, but no.”
Dylan snorted. “He was bullied every day for his lunch money when we were kids. Every bully knew to pick on Cash for cash.”
I frowned. “Now that reallyisterrible. Would you say your past experiences as a child influenced your career choice?”
Cash chuckled. “I didn’t realize the interview had already started.”
“Oh, no. Sorry, sometimes I get a little ahead of myself. The official interview isn’t until tomorrow. I just wanted to introduce myself and go over the general details.”
“And what would those be?” Red asked, his voice so low it was like standing next to a subwoofer.
“Well, my editor’s hoping to give you an entire spread,” I began. “So that’s two pages, plus supplementary articles to post online since, you know, everything’s digital these days. I’ll be around to take pictures, ask you questions about the sport, yada yada. My boss is interested in leaning hard into thelocal-boys-turned-proangle, so I’ll probably ask you a bit about your upbringing here in Sunville and all that good stuff. I sent you a list of rough questions via email earlier this morning, though I might add more as I go. Do any of you have any—”
I looked up and trailed off.
Dylan, Red, and Cash were staring at me with the same intensity that I couldn’t even begin to describe. I felt warm under their combined attention, my nerves crackling with electricity. I unconsciously nibbled on my bottom lip, holding back a little laugh.
“Sorry,” I mumbled. “I know I can talk really fast sometimes. My sister’s always telling me to slow down. Should I start from the top?”
