Page 17 of False Start
“Whatever you want.”
Weston cursed, throwing himself backward in his chair as he forced the truck into gear and accelerated through the now-yellow traffic light. We drove several blocks in silence before Weston cursed again, shaking his head.
“Everyone has a right to boundaries, princess. The only people who would tell you differently are taking advantage of you. I wouldn’t do anything to hurt you.”
His jaw was set, his eyes resolutely on the road as he steered us around a corner and over the Chicago River.
“I know,” I said, wanting to touch him. To impress upon him how much I meant what I was saying.
“I trust you.”
I had met a lot of men in my life. Predators, and protectors, and everything in between. I’d become adept at identifying men like Denny Hayes, who would take more than you were willing to give in the name of career progression. Weston Naylor was not one of those men. I knew that from the moment he ordered me to breathe outside Bar 103.
His face softened, and he flicked a quick glance at me before returning his attention to the road.
“Tell me something about you,” I blurted, eager to move away from the vulnerable moment we’d created.
“Like what?”
I thought for a moment. What did I want to know about him?
Everything.
We hadn’t shared personal details on the night we shared together because the mystique had been part of the fun — though in retrospect, sharing some very basic details might have been helpful — but in the days since then, I’d become an avid researcher into the life of Weston. Unfortunately, it turned out that apart from a career threatening injury, amazing playing statistics, and a public relationship breakdown, there wasn’t much to find.
“If you had one day off to do whatever you wanted, what would you do?”
He drummed his thumbs against the steering wheel, humming in thought as we slowed at another corner and turned away from the water.
“I’d do a sunrise hike — maybe Indiana Dunes, or Starved Rock — then go for breakfast with my buddies. I’d talk them into doing something fun, like a round of paintball, or laser tag, or maybe head out to Lake Michigan and spend the afternoon kayaking or kicking a ball around. Maybe make time for a bake-off with my neighbor and chill at home for the evening. Get the guys around and do a cook out, or something. I dunno, I guess a day off would be spent having fun with people I love. How about you?”
The truth was, if I had a day off, I’d either spend the entire day in bed, binge a podcast, or hyperfixate on a new hobby that I’d half finish and never pick up again. Seeing as it sounded the least depressing, I chose option C.
“Probably learn something new.”
“That’s cool. What kind of things do you like to learn?”
I hadn’t planned for follow-up questions.
Luckily, we reached our destination, and his question was lost in a flurry of handing the car over to the valet and posing for cameras as we entered the event hall. Weston’s hand was like a brand against my lower back. Warm. Welcome. Dangerous.
Inside, the walls were plastered with larger-than-life photos of athletes in sportswear wearing smoldering expressions I assumed were supposed to entice the average person to purchase compression shorts and brightly colored tank tops. Across the bottom of each image in obnoxiously big letters was the sloganSet your own Pace.
“That’s the best they could come up with?” I murmured, eyeing a picture of a beautiful woman with masses of braids cascading over her shoulder wearing a lime green sports bra and matching leggings.
“Amara? What’s wrong with her?” Weston asked, his voice guarded.
“What? I’m talking about the slogan. It’s lazy. The model is stunning, the clothing sets off her skin beautifully, and then it just says set your own pace. Like, geez. Did someone sleep through their deadline?”
Weston huffed, just the ghost of a laugh as his shoulders relaxed.
“I’m not sure, but they were probably well paid, and if you’re lucky you might be able to tell them they suck to their face tonight.”
I pulled back from him, unable to tell if he was joking. A server who had been walking close behind me stumbled, barely recovering his tray of drinks as Weston pulled me to safety.
“I can’t take you anywhere, can I?” he asked. The move had put us chest to chest, and I wondered if he could feel how hard my heart pounded as I tried to maintain eye contact. He really was a beautiful man, especially with his blond hair loose around his shoulders.
“I’m sorry,” I said, sliding a cautious hand up his chest. “I don’t want to embarrass you tonight.”
