Page 39 of Biggest Player
It’s as if she doesn’t care what I think of her.
Tucked into the high waist of her pants is a black silk blouse—it’s covered with small bright-blue lightning bolts.
The top three buttons are unbuttoned.
It’s flirty.
Cute.
Big gold hoop earrings.
If she’s trying to keep this evening casual, she’s doing a remarkably shitty job because I haven’t been able to stop staring down her shirtsince we got here, and I sure as hell want to reach over and touch her hair, feel if it’s as soft as it looks.
Instead, I set down my beer and crack my knuckles.
“Cute” is what I manage to say.
“Cute,” she mimics, hopping back on her stool. “The thing every grown woman wants to be called.”
“I don’t know what you’re getting annoyed about. If I had said those jeans make your ass look amazing, you would be insulted by that too.”
Her head shakes. “Not true. These days, I’m willing to take whatever compliments I can get.”
Margot laughs, looking adorable and fun and sexy, and in the back of my brain I wonder if anyone has taken our photo and whether or not a picture of us will appear online tomorrow. Or tonight.
One never knows.
I couldn’t care less, but I imagine that as a teacher Margot would care a whole lot.
It’s a weird, foreign feeling sitting next to a woman who doesn’t seem to be interested in me romantically. Financially. Physically.
I should check her temperature; maybe she’s coming down with an illness ...
She plucks up a menu, studies it a few seconds before snapping it closed when the bartender walks over to wipe down the counter—whether he’s trying to listen to our conversation or he’s ready to take our order, I do not know.
“I find it so fascinating you’re on a dating app.” She resumes sipping her cocktail. “Is this your first go-round?”
I assume she’s asking if I’ve been on dating apps before. “Yes, it’s my first time. My,uh—friend’s girlfriend created Kissmet.”
Margot blinks at me.
Blinks again.
“Are you kidding me right now?” Smacks me on the shoulder as if I were her bro, eyes wide with delight. “Shut the front door! She did not.”
I nod. “It’s true.”
“Stop it—that is so cool! Did she actually?”
I nod again. “Yeah. Her name is Harlow.”
“That is so cool,” she whispers again in an awe-filled voice. “What’s it like knowing someone who created something so useful?”
She sounds so impressed. More impressed than she sounded when she discovered I am a bona fide, real-life professional athlete, my face and name scattered on billboards and products all over the country. All over the world.
My ego bruises a fraction.
I clear my throat. “Harlow is awesome.”
