Page 19 of Broken Play
"No, but careful, Boss, this is beginning to sound like a date." His bad mood vanishes, and an omnipotent smile slides across his face, punctuated by two half-hidden dimples.
I shake my head and say, "We'll call it a working dinner." Unable to look him in the eye, I stride off into the tunnel.
I'm tapping my foot, hoping the elevator doors open before he gets to me. No such luck. He leans over my shoulder and says, "See ya tonight." His voice is rough around the edges and so low that it forces my lids to close, and I take in the smell of his hard-fought practice in the Texas sun.
Dusk in Texasis prettier than any sunset I've ever seen. Maybe it's the vast, undeveloped land surrounding Greyson's house. The porch light illuminates the front walkway of his modern farmhouse. It's white brick with black-trimmed windows and doors, accented by cedar columns anchored in stone.
I ring the doorbell,unsure of why I invited myself over. The Armadillo quarterback answers the door, and I'm blown away. He's in a dress shirt, tight jeans, and cowboy boots, making my core ache.
"Hey, where's dinner?" he asks as he looks at my hands, which are filled with folders and a notepad.
My lips fold together as I look anywhere but at him. He's the flame, and I'm the moth. "Oh, sorry, you didn't say what you wanted. Can we get something delivered?"
"I don't want people knowing where I live." He stares me down before he moves to the side and gestures for me to come inside.
"Wow, your house has furniture. And what's that smell? Did you cook?"
"It's summer chili and cornbread." He takes in my surprise and continues, "You can put your work on the island. Do you want a beer or sangria?"
He cooks? This does feel like a date. What have I started?
Do I refuse? Hell no. "Sangria."
He grabs a glass from the black, soft-close cabinet, pouring it like he's wined and dined a few thousand women in his life—effortless. The sleeves of his dress shirt are rolled up a few times, and they accentuate his muscles as his forearms flex. He hands me the glass and grabs his beer.
"Let's go out on the back porch and watch the rest of the sunset. The cornbread has a few more minutes."
The main living area is on the middle floor, and the porch is what I call a deck, half-covered to keep the Texas heat at bay. There's a sectional with orange cushions and a coffee table with coals that can be lit.
"Ladies first." We sit, his body angled toward me. "So, what did you want to discuss?"
I knew this question was coming, and I had prepared several answers on the thirty-minute drive over, but what do I do? "Umm. I, uh..."
"Sutton, don't be nervous."
Every insecurity I've ever had prickles at my spine. "I'm not. I wanted to tell you that Logan Warren isn't playing in the preseason game this weekend. They're giving him a few extra weeks off."
His blue eyes glimmer with the reflection of the sunset. "That doesn't change anything for me or the team. Now tell me why you're here with your folders and portfolio."
"Because I wanted to talk to you about your interaction with your brother."
He laughs. "Right."
"I do."
"Whatever you say," he huffs, a smirk tugging at his mouth.
His fingers brush my hair away from my face, feather-light and deliberate, and every cell in my body seems to freeze and ignite at once. I'm hyperaware of how close we're sitting. The hot summer night is cooled by the large steel fans above, but I'm unable to deny the hot charge between us. His laughter fades, replaced by something heavier, hungrier—and when he tips my chin up, the world narrows to the space between our mouths. I know every reason we shouldn't do this; I keep a list in my phone.
General manager.
Quarterback.
His brother.
My dad.
The rules are written in bold, unbreakable letters.
