Page 39 of Scoring the Player
She glances down at her cut-off jean shorts and sneakers. Today’s shoes are another pair of Jordans—these look older though, a little more worn than the pair she had on that night at The Hideout. “I can’t. I’m a mess.”
“You look great.”
She shoots me a look of disagreement, but I think I have her convinced, until she frowns. “And I really should finish this. I told Eddie I’d send him photos by the weekend.”
“It’s only ten-thirty, the party won’t start for a bit. How much longer until you’re done?”
“I don’t know. An hour, maybe. I need to do some finishing touches and then beg Robby to try them on for me.”
“Robby?”
She looks over her shoulder to a guy sitting at a table on the other side of the room. I hadn’t even seen him.
“Well, I could swing back by and pick you up when you’re done?”
Dahlia looks at Robby again and then me, chewing on the corner of her lip. “I have another idea.”
“Oh no.” I hold my hands up. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Please? You’re about Eddie’s height and build, and it’ll get us out of here quicker.”
I hold back a groan, but then she gives me this wide-eyed, hopeful look, and I know I’m going to do it.
“Fine, but we are closing down that party tonight.”
“How late is that?” she asks, then shakes her head. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter. I’m willing to suffer for my art.”
I huff a laugh. “Going to a party with me is suffering?”
“I don’t do well without sleep.”
“What time is your first class tomorrow?”
“Eight.”
“I’ll have you home by three.”
She groans.
“Two-thirty.”
She still doesn’t look pleased.
“Two. Final offer.”
“Deal.” She beams. She points to a partition in the back of the room. “You can change there.”
“Never had to do someone a favor to get them to party with me before,” I say as I head back there.
“Just lose the jeans. You can keep your shirt on.”
Shaking my head, I go behind the short screen and drop my jeans. I can see over it and I watch Dahlia work at her station while I do. She’s got this frantic energy about her when she’s really into something.
“I think you just wanted an excuse to see me mostly naked,” I say, walking back to stand in front of her in just my boxer briefs and T-shirt. I’m comfortable with my body. Years of sharing a locker room with dozens of guys, most with no qualms about walking around totally nude, has made sure of that. But there’s an excited thrum coursing through me as her gaze rakes over me.
“I was going to bring you the pants.” Her face is red, and she won’t meet my eyes as she hands them to me.
I chuckle. “That makes more sense.”
