Page 17 of Cloudy With a Chance of Bad Decisions

Dark eyes to complement the honey blond of his hair.

A plush mouth with a sharp tongue.

Long, long legs. Lean shoulders. Sharp angles and soft hands.

I’d never been a poet, but looking at George made me want to try myhand at it—if only so that I could attempt to remember how frustratingly fascinating he was. Which was infuriating seeing as I’d promised myself I wouldn’t be drawn in by him.

It would have been impossible not to be.

He was as stunning as he was prickly, and I couldn’t recall the last time I’d flirted with someone and been shut down so goddamn efficiently.

“I’m not going to tell you my hobbies,” George finally settled on, though it’d taken him a solid forty seconds—and counting—to get there.

“I play sports,” I offered in reply, hoping that if I opened up, he would too. I’d yet to meet a single person who’d glimpsed beneath my walls and liked what they saw, so I didn’t understand why my mouth kept fucking opening, bullshit spilling free.

“Good for you,” George huffed, sinking lower into his seat. He had narrow shoulders, though his suit had done a pretty good job of concealing it. Narrow shoulders, narrow hips, long, limber legs. God, those fucking legs, kill me now.

Made me want to squeeze and knead and shove them wide apart.

“I’m not picky about which one. I’ve dabbled in most—” I continued, like he hadn’t spoken. “Though hockey is probably my favorite—and the one I play often. Recreationally. I’m by no means a professional.”

Jesus, Alex. Why are you telling him all of this?

George’s mouth opened like he was about to ask a question, then it snapped shut the moment he thought better of it.

“What?” I asked, excited that I might havefinallyinspired something other than a biting remark. “You a hockey guy?”

“No,” George scoffed. “I’m wondering if a puck to the head is the reason you don’t know when to shut up.”

“Oof,” I slapped a hand over my heart. “You wound me.”

“I sincerely doubt that,” George sighed, gaze fixed resolutely on the seat in front of him. “I literally wounded you, and you’re still bothering me.” Hischeeks were pink, though, which was adorable.

Christ. It was impossible to break through his walls.

This was not a script I had memorized.

Normally, by this point, I had people eating out of my hand. Sometimes literally. Other times, there were fingers on my biceps, and dark pupils peering up at me as whoever I was trying to woo inquired ifsportswere the reason my physique was as sculpted as it was.

To which the answer was no.

But I’d lie and say maybe.

They’d titter and laugh.

Five minutes later I’d have my dick snug inside whoever I had seduced.

Rinse and repeat.

It was the same thing over and over and over again.

But not with George.

No.

George was…

George wasGeorge.

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