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“You don’t have to do that. It’s not far.”
“I’d feel better knowing you got where you needed to go.”
“Okay,” she agrees, albeit a little reluctantly.
“Do you have an umbrella or anything?” I ask as the rain begins to pick up.
“Unfortunately, I don’t.” She tries to use her bag to cover her head.
“Here.” I laugh, stopping to peel open my bag. Pulling out my jacket, I throw the bag back over my shoulder before taking hers and doing the same.
When I hold my jacket open for her, she looks at me like I have five heads.
“Put it on,” I tell her. “It’s clean. I promise. And it has a hood so you can stay dry.” I help her into the jacket that damn near swallows her small body, smiling to myself at the sight. “There.” I even go as far as to zip the damn thing for her before handing her bag back to her.
“How do I look?” She peers up at me from beneath the hood that nearly covers the entire top half of her face.
I reach out, adjusting the hood so that she can actually see.
“Perfect.” I grin down at her.
“Shut up. I probably look ridiculous.”
“You couldn’t look ridiculous if you tried.” Our eyes lock and stay that way for a small beat before I finally find the strength to look away. “Come on. You don’t want to be late for your date.” I take off up the sidewalk, Rory quick to be at my side.
“For the record, it isn’t a date.”
“You’re going to dinner with a guy who has made no secret about wanting to fuck you. I’d say it’s a date.”
“Well, Idon’twant tofuckhim, so it’s not.” The way she curses, hesitating around the word like she’s just waiting for someone to yell at her.
“I take it your parents didn’t allow cursing in your house?” I chuckle.
“Why do you say that?” She looks up at me for a brief moment before once again turning her gaze forward.
“Because you sayfucklike you’re preparing for someone to stick a bar of soap in your mouth at any second.”
“I do not.” She shakes her head, laughter in her voice.
“You do, actually,” I disagree.
“I will admit, it’s not a word that resides in my regular vocabulary. Unlike some people.” She doesn’t have to say more for me to know she’s talking about me.
“What do you expect when I was raised by a football player turned coach. Fuck was pretty much my middle name growing up.”
“Shut up.” Now she’s actually laughing and the sound might just be the best damn thing I’ve ever heard.
“I’m serious.” I chuckle myself.
“Was he very strict?” she asks, the humor dying from her voice.
“Not really. I mean, unless we were on the field, then he was all business. But as soon as we were home, he was just Dad again.”
“Sounds like you two are close.”
“We are.”
“Does he ever come to your games?”
