Page 17 of Falling for the Quarterback

“You should schedule an appointment during office hours like all my other students.”

Laughter trickles out of my mouth and I tip my head to the side, a cocky smile forming on my lips. “I think we can both agree I’m a littledifferentfrom yourotherstudents.”

Despite the lighting, I can see the blush that blooms over her creamy white cheeks and her expression tells me she wants to smack me. Or maybe even smack my ass.

Hmm…that’d be fun.

Her eyes dart away as if she might even be thinking the same thing and she takes a long pull of the beer. The night we met, she ordered wine. I like the fact that she can drink a beer just as well and isn’t a hoity-toity wine snob.

Although, it wouldn’t matter. If she even hinted at the idea that she wanted me to take her back to her place to fuck her right now, I’d do it in a second. I’m horny as fuck and haven’t been laid in…well…a long time. I’d like to say it was just a dry spell, but I’m pretty sure that’s not it.

I’ve been hung up on someone else.

And that someone is sitting across from me right now, drinking a beer and shooting me daggers with her eyes. But a man’s gotta try.

I down the rest of my beer, needing to quench my dry throat after that thought.

“So you won’t tell me who the old guy was?”

“Sod off, Joel, or Hendy, whatever your name is,” she protests, using the British slang that only intensifies when she’s a little miffed. It also increases her hotness by another fifty degrees. “I don’t need to explain myself to you, but he’s an old family friend and he’s in town as a guest lecturer in the economics department.”

“Good,” I reply. “Under normal circumstances, I like a bit of healthy competition. But in your case, I don’t want to compete.”

She sniffs. “Compete for what, exactly?”

“You.”

A very unladylike grunt barrels from her mouth. “Excuse me? Get that out of your head right now. We are not going there again.”

I lean over the table and speak softly so as not to be overheard—especially by Cassie, who is a total gossip—but firmly. “By going there, do you mean between your legs?”

“Oh my God!” Lottie rises from her seat, swaying unsteadily on her feet, and lifts her hand at me in protest. She jabs a finger in the air. “You can’t say things like that to me, Hendy. Ever again. I need to leave.”

I jump up and reach for her waist because she looks like she could topple over—either from too much to drink or her flustered indignation. “Whoa there, Lottie. I’ve got you.”

“It’sProfessorButler to you, Hendy,” she hisses out in a slightly slurred accent. “And I am quite capable of standing on my own. Now, let go of me. I don’t need your help.”

She wrenches herself free, grabs her purse from the back of the chair—which gets stuck, causing her to curse out a mumbledbuggerand yank the strap free—and starts toward the exit.

I follow along behind her as we head through the crowded room, ready to help her at a moment’s notice if she stumbles.

“You’re not driving, right?”

She pushes out the door and then glares back at me.

“I’m walking home, thank you very much.”

I nod and take my place next to her, not saying another word.

She stops after a few steps and lets out an exasperated sigh.

“Joel, what do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m walking you home. Obvs.” I smile in the dark because she makes a little angry growl sound.

For reasons unbeknownst to me, Lottie suddenly begins to laugh. Side-splitting, bent-over, hysterical laughter like what I just said is the funniest thing she’s ever heard. I know she’s had a few beers, but I didn’t think she was that drunk.

I lay a hand on her back and she pops back up to a stand, her laughter turning to a hiccup and then a slight grumble of protest.

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