Page 2 of Cruising with You

It.

Cheeks blazing, I peek over at him. He’s looking at me with a full-blown grin plastered across his handsome face. Chiseled jaw. Straight, white teeth. Smoldering smirk that could melt the panties off a nun. It’s a heady concoction.

I snap my attention back to the field. When I realize I’m holding my breath, my mouth forms a tiny ‘o’ shape before I let out the pent-up oxygen in my lungs. I take another peek. Yup. He’s still looking at me. Still grinning. Still looking devilishly handsome.

And still driving me insane with his attention pointed directly at me instead of the game.

With a huff, I tuck my hair behind my ear and glance his way another time, only breaking eye contact when his cocky smirk almost makes me forget what I was going to say in the first place. “Is, uh…”––another peek––“is there a problem?” I ask.

“No problem,” he returns before tipping back his clear plastic cup and gulping down a bit more beer.

“Are you uh…you sure about that?” He’s still staring at me with the whole cat-who-ate-the-canary look.

“Positive.”

“Then why aren’t you watching the game?”

“Because you’re much more interesting to look at,” he quips. “Can I ask you something?”

I can’t help the awkward laugh that bubbles out of me before I mutter, “Sure. Ask away.”

“Will you marry me?”

Covering my face in my hands, I laugh. Hard and uncontrollably.

“What’s so funny?” he asks with faux outrage, though he’s clearly enjoying my insane reaction to his equally insane proposal.

I laugh even harder, my cheeks so hot with embarrassment that I’m surprised I haven’t burned up on the spot.

“Sorry, Gage.” His friend pats him on the back, sloshing a bit of his drink onto the ground. “I’m pretty sure that’s what you’d call rejection.”

“Ah, come on, Pretty Girl. You can’t reject me in front of my friends. They’ll never let me live it down.” With those same puppy dog brown eyes, he pouts for good measure.

“And what would you suggest I do?”

“Saying yes would be a good start,” he teases before resting his elbow on the chair arm that separates us.

“You’re charming when you’re drunk; I’ll give you that,” I reply. There’s a pinch in my cheeks from smiling so hard, but I can’t help myself.

“Charming, huh? I can work with that.” He tosses another wink my way before pointing out, “That wasn’t a no, by the way.”

I cover my mouth to prevent any more laughter from bubbling up, but it doesn’t stop the pinch in my cheeks from amplifying.

“Come on,” his friend interjects, leaning forward so that he can see me more clearly. “Throw the guy a bone. Say, yes, will ya?”

“I believe this is called peer pressure at it’s finest.”

“You wanna see peer pressure?” the stranger––Gabe?––asks with a mischievous grin. There’s a time-out on the field, so the crowd is relatively quiet, and our little interaction has slowly attracted the attention of the strangers surrounding us. I can tellhe’s thriving on the attention, while I feel like I’m having heart palpitations from it.

When he stands to his full height, towering over me, I realize what he’s about to do.

No, no, no, no!

Reaching for his muscular forearm, I try to tug him back down, but it’s like trying to pull a statue down that’s been bolted to the ground.

Useless.

“Don’t you dare,” I whisper-shout, not opposed to begging if it’ll keep him from doing what I think he’s about to do.

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