Page 2 of Falling for the Quarterback

I blush—because when was the last time someone called me beautiful?—then shake my head and we tap our glasses together. Sipping our drinks, we stare at each other over the rims of our glasses, and a million questions pop in my head.

“Well, why don’t you tell me something about yourself, Hendy?” I say in an effort to sound casual. “All I know at this point is you save reckless skiers out on the slopes and know the bartender. Which tells me you come here a lot.”

His lips quirk up to the side and the brights of his eyes shine with mystique. He raises a hand, bringing the glass to his lips, and his shirt’s fabric clings tight to his bicep. Damn, this man has incredible definition. I felt it earlier when his arms were tightened around my body as he held me upright, saving me from danger. My eyes automatically scan over his face and down his chest where the skin-tight shirt pulls over the grooves of his abdominals.

He cocks his head to one side and regards me quietly. “I come up as often as I can. And, if you must know, I once won a chess competition.”

My eyes widen. “Really? You play chess?”

He nods. “As a kid, my dad taught me. It wasn’t that hard to learn,” he admits with a sheepish grin. “What about you? You’re obviously not from around here. Where are you from?”

I set my wine down and let my mind flip through my childhood memories but answer his first question. “I’m here on holiday from the East Coast.”

Hendy narrows his eyes at me, disbelieving my statement. I chuckle. “Fine, I’ve been living on the East Coast. I’m originally from the UK. And when I was around six or seven, I found a missing dog and received a monetary reward for his return.”

“Wow. It seems I’m in the presence of a real Sherlock Holmes,” he teases, a slow grin parting at his mouth.

That smile of his is deadly.

He casually sets down his drink and his index finger brushes against mine. The touch—albeit quick—makes my breath hitch. As if waiting to see how I respond, he does it again, this time purposefully rubbing his finger along mine.

An electric current runs through my body, surging over my skin, racing in my bloodstream as desire explodes between my legs. Underneath my sweater, my nipples harden, and I stare at his face. His grin turns into a wicked smile that etches across his lips.

It’s that smile that is my undoing. He’s going to be my one-night stand.

Tonight. Now.

I reach for my drink and drain it, suddenly needing a little liquid courage. He mirrors me and sets down his empty glass.

We both speak at the same time.

“Would you like another?”

“Let’s get out of here,” I state boldly, not even recognizing my own voice. “Unless…I’m being presumptuous.”

Oh shit. Now I feel like a fool. What if he’s married? Has a girlfriend? Isn’t interested?

I want to backpedal and erase what I just said.

But from the heated look in his eyes, he’s all in.

He pulls out some money from his pocket, tosses it on the table and then stands. Holding out his hand to me, I take it, along with the acceptance of my decision that this is going to happen.

“Your place or mine?” he asks, standing behind me as he helps me into my coat. His voice is deep and low, and the warmth of his breath fans over my neck. It startles me how powerful it is.

He must take this as anxiety, because he whispers in my ear.

“I’m not a serial killer, if that’s what you’re worried about. In fact, you can leave your name and number with Jake if it makes you feel better. I’ve also never been arrested,” he says with a smirk.

He’s one cocky bastard, but secretly it thrills me. He’s working to establish trust and make me feel more confident with him.

“Just because you haven’t been arrested could just mean you haven’t been caught yet,” I point out, feeling sassy and buoyant with excitement now.

A deep laugh reverberates from his chest and his hand grasps my hand in his as we leave the bar. I suck in a breath. This man is doing things to me with just the barest of touches and the sound of his voice has my core clenching deliciously in ways it hasn’t in years.

“Touché.”

I contemplate his question about where we should go. If I’m going to make a bad decision tonight, at least I should have the home-court advantage.

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