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SUNDAY
“Are you,like, hiding from the law or something?”
The man beside me chuckles, peering at me from under the brim of that damp cap. It’s cute, I’ll give him that. Pale blue with a stingray embroidered on, some text too faded to read. But it hides too much of a face I suspect to be devastating, and I’m in the mood to be a little devastated.
When he fails to reply, I push, “Where I’m from, wearing a hat indoors is bad manners.”
That strong jaw of his clenches for just a second before he smiles. It’s tense, though, along with the set of his shoulders. Slowly—like he’s delaying the inevitable or putting on a show, I can’t tell—he takes off his cap, runs a hand over cropped curls, and yeah. I was right.
Devastating.
Smooth, brown skin. Onyx eyes, so dark they’re almost black yet warm and mirthful, framed by thin lines that only show the years he has on me when he smiles that smile, the one that could get a girl pregnant, and full lips that love to do just that. And, because clearly, he’s God’s favorite, he has a dimple. One single indent in his cheek, half-hidden by a thin layer of facial hair.
Beautiful men aren’t common back home. We have worn men. Hardy men. Real men’s men, my mama liked to say. None of those delicate city boys, daddy always scoffed.
Right now, I’m a little ticked off that I’ve been deprived of delicate, beautiful city boys because Lord, the man crooking a dark brow at me as if to say ‘happy?’ is a sight to behold.
A quick glance around tells me I’m not the only one who thinks that.
“Ah,” I hum. Leaning back in my seat, I’m oh so aware of how the hand on my thigh doesn’t let me get very far. “I get it now. If I looked like you, I’d hide away too.”
He laughs like I’m joking. “Oh yeah?”
“People take pictures of you a lot, don’t they?”
Something wry sparkles in those pretty eyes. “Every now and then.”
“Do you stop traffic? Cause pile-ups?”
“Once or twice.”
I sigh, a long, forlorn noise hummed over the lip of my glass. “It must be very inconvenient, being so very beautiful.”
The laughter dries out. Perfectly proportioned lips part, a tiny, surprised breath leaving them, and now I’m the one chuckling. “Oh, come on. Don’t tell me you’re averse to compliments ‘cause I call bullshit. You know you’re gorgeous.”
“I do,” he confirms, and I snort. “That was just really… sincere.”
And that surprises him. Huh. Interesting. “Used to people blowing smoke up your ass?”
My mysterious, handsome stranger laughs. “You have no idea.”
* * *
“You fucked Cass Morgan.”
I level my sister with a look that begs her to please,please, “Stop saying that.”
Undeterred, Willow snickers. “I’ll stop saying it when it stops being true.”
Well, then I’m shit out of luck.
Propping her hip against the counter beside me, Willow dips a finger in the bowl of cinnamon-banana muffin batter I’m mixing the crap out of. “How the fuck do you bang a celebrity and not know it?”
It’s easy, really; you simply don’t know shit about celebrities. I wasn’t lying when I said his name meant nothing to me. I had to Google the man to connect the dots. Boy, did that turn up a wealth of information. Very confusing, conflicting information because how does a girl stay mad at someone who has what felt like a million articles detailing his advocacy for LGBTQ+ rights—as the Wolves’ first openly bisexual player, he takes that very seriously—and involvement with a million different charities—everything from domestic abuse services to animal shelters to non-profit sports initiatives for kids—and pictures of him and his wealth of family members. All of that sounds like the guy I met in that bar. Cocky and proud and a bit of a showboat butkind.
Not like the dick who accused me of selling stories about my sex life. And stalking him.
It’s been a week and I’m still struggling to correlate the two.
