Page 3 of Playing the Field
“Care to share?”
Is he asking me to read to him?
“Um…”
“The title. I could use something new on my bedside table.”
He must be making fun of me. I use a large font so I don’t need my reading glasses, andThe Highland Bachelorat the top of the screen leaves little question about the content.
“You—you’re a big reader?” I don’t mean to sound skeptical, but my question comes out in a deadpan tone that makes his eyebrows jump.
“Among other things.” The smug half smile leaves no question about those other things. My face heats like I’m back in high school, gawking at a football player who deigned to talk to the shy girl holding her books against her flat chest by the lockers.
The smirk looks good on him. Too good. This must be his game, making unsuspecting women go red in the face and weak in the knees for sport.
It’s hot in here. I take a sip of my soda, willing it to chill me from the inside out.
He looks familiar. Probably an actor. This is LA, after all. It’s why I’m eager to get back to the safety of nerdville in Northern California, where most of the people I know are computer coders.
But wait…is he…? Have I spent too long watching soccer players, or does he look a bit like Hunter Reyes, whom I spent a good part of the day watching from thirty rows up?
No. What are the odds? He’s just one of many hot LA guys with charm to burn.
“It’s, um, a regency romance. About a Scottish duke.” That’ll get rid of him.
He nods, grinning and flashing a dimple in one cheek. “Scotland, eh. I read the Diana Gabaldon series. Couldn’t get on board with the time travel aspect at first, but I came around.”
I blink slowly, trying to decipher if my brain has gone haywire from the heat. Is he telling me hereadsperiod romances?
“Be interested in trying something else if you feel like letting me in on the title of yours.”
Yup, he still seems to be talking about romance novels, so I oblige. “This one is particularly generous with setting. I really feel the Highlands atmosphere—the steep craggy hillsides and the stormy lake waters—makes me want to take a trip there someday… Anyhow, the heroine owns a farm and tends sheep there, but her property and her family name are threatened by this duke, who inherited the title but has no real love for the land. At least, not yet. And then there’s?—”
“Excuse me…” A young woman with an apologetic giggle inserts herself between us. All I see is a mane of blond-streaked hair, and I inhale the sweet scent of floral body wash. “I’m such a big fan. Could I get a picture?”
The man grunts his approval, and I scoot over to make space for her to move in and snap the usual array of selfies—the sideways peace sign, the puckered lips, the arms around his neck with a heel kicked up in back.
“Okay, I’m tagging you. Follow me back, or just follow me. Footiefangirl68.” She points an accusing finger with a manicured nail at both of us. I’m so unnerved that I nod and obediently enter her social media handle, which I plan to delete later.
She thanks him profusely right as I’m fumbling through a streak of mortification, wondering if he really is Hunter. Gorgeous face, muscular build, dark hair… The outputs are too numerous, so I quickly survey what I can see around us, looking for a visible luggage tag, a business logo, an obvious sign like his name spelled out in block letters on his forehead.
Nope, nothing except his face grinning in amusement at my obvious distress and the fact that I’m gawking at him. Arms folded across his chest, he looks like he has all the time in the world to enjoy my awkward stare.
Mercifully, a voice drones through the PA system with the first boarding announcement for my flight. “That’s me, gotta go,” I say, digging into my wallet for some cash to throw on top of my check. I’m leaving a 40 percent tip, but this guy has me too rattled to wait around for change. I’m off the barstool with my carry-on over my shoulder in seconds.
“Too bad for me. I was enjoying the view.”
I chance one more look at him, certain he’s gazing out the plate glass windows at airplanes or something, but his eyes are roaming over my body in a way that’s sexy, not creepy.
Does he mean…me? It doesn’t compute. It’s not that I don’t think I possesssomefemale charms, but they’re mostly limited to the occasional good hair day and ways I can impress people by adding three-digit numbers in my head.
Neither is happening here.
Popping a too-large bite of potato, bacon, and cheese into my mouth, I slide off the barstool and shove my e-book into my purse. When I finally swallow, I find his gaze trained so hotly on me that I feel pinpricks of sweat on my skin and a surprising clench in a G-spot I didn’t know I had.
If this man can do that with a look, I can’t imagine what he could do if he actually touched me.
I want to find out.
