Page 21 of Playing the Field
“Hooking up with anything that moves. You’re telling me you won’t be doing that here?”
“I’m guaranteeing you I won’t be doing that here. In fact, I’m guaranteeing you that you’ll be bringing a guy here for a hookup long before I will.”
She laughs and extends a hand. “Care to make it interesting?”
“What do you have in mind?’
“I bet that you’ll hook up with a woman before I hook up with a guy.”
I grasp her hand and try to ignore the shot of electricity that slams into me at the feel of her skin. “Easiest money I’ll ever make. What’s the bet?”
She thinks for a moment, eyes darting around like she’s trying hard to come up with something good, something she really wants. “Don’t work too hard. You’re not going to win.”
She smiles. “The loser has to cook dinner for the winner.”
“Really? I already did that.”
“I know. And it was delish. So I’m looking forward to winning this bet and doing it again.”
“Good luck to you. And when you lose, you’ll need to do better than a baked potato.”
“Noted.”
Our plates are scraped bare, so there’s no excuse for me to keep her out here longer. And I don’t plan on losing this bet, so I guess I won’t be cooking for her again.
She gets up from the table and starts carrying our dishes into the kitchen. “Thank you again for dinner.”
“Thank you for saving my job.”
“You don’t have to thank me. You did all the work. I’m purely a data analyst, trying to get ahead.” She doesn’t emphasize for athird time that she needs to do well so she can get the hell out of here and go back to the life she likes far better than this one. I’ve been an athlete long enough to know I should take the win on dinner and tune out the rest.
“Sleep well, Gracie.”
“G’night, soccer star.”
I turn away so she won’t see how much I like it when she calls me that.
CHAPTER 11
Gracie
The timer dings,telling me the batch of muffins I popped into the oven forty-five minutes earlier is probably done. I should check them and hover nearby until they’re perfect.
I like them a little soft in the middle, and I hate it when the bottoms get too brown.
The oven light doesn’t tell me anything, so I ease the door open, inhaling the delicious cinnamon scent of eight giant apple muffins. The recipe is for a dozen, but I think they’re best when the muffin top bulges out of the tin and spills over. The top is the best part, so why not make it as big as possible?
The toothpick I insert in the center comes out clean, so I decide they’re done. One more whiff of the heavenly smell as I pop the tray on a rack to cool. I know better than to eat them when they’re too hot. Burning the roof of my mouth is a rookie mistake, and I’m no rookie.
Padding back to the storage area I’ve turned into an office, Imake a bet with myself. I think I can get through one week of training data and upload the numbers into my software program before the muffins are cool enough to eat.
Game on.
I’ve been working for the past three hours, and somewhere along the way, I drifted into the Zen zone, that place where time stands still, and I lose myself in numbers and data. A herd of elephants could dance in the next room, and I wouldn’t notice.
The house is so quiet. Even though Hunter passed me in the kitchen earlier and raised an eyebrow when he saw that I was making muffins, I haven’t seen or heard him since. I’m sure he has a life with his teammates or the women he dates, and there are many.
Yes, I took a little time last night and did a social media search, all in the name of research. It’s only good sense to know all sides of the players I’m dealing with, and even though I have assistants who run reports with similar information, it couldn’t hurt to do a little checking myself.
