Page 53 of Daring the Hockey Player
I wasn't wearing a jersey. It's unlikely I was recognized.
Kyler tells me that I'm in denial when it comes to my image and the fact that every time I step outside my apartment, someone could recognize me.
I'm not like my older brother, who is constantly getting bombarded by the media and requests for autographs when I go out. At the game, when I'm recognizable in my jersey, sure, the fans flock for an autograph, but they do for any of the players on the team.
We cruise through two stores, and her first purchase is a pair of fashionable boots, along with a set of black and pink polka-dot socks to rock with her pajamas. The girl makes everything look hot.
She hasn't let me use my brother's credit card, except for breakfast, where she insisted that I should pay because I sprayed her with cream.
Yeah, that's not the only cream I'd like to see on her face.
I push my feelings and the growing hard-on for her aside by thinking about anything else.
It doesn't really work.
To be honest, the more I push her away, the more that I want her. It's probably the whole forbidden romance vibe, and once we bang it out, we'll both be over it.
Which worries me more because I can't have an awkward encounter with her after we bang it out since we are likely to see each other. For starters, at Kyler and Emerson's wedding.
My only other option is to heed Noah's advice and friend zone her. I've done a fairly good job at making sure that we stay platonic, but every time she gives me those doe eyes or that explosive smile, I want to fuck her and show her what it's like to be worshipped by a man.
"Almost done in there?" I ask. She's in the dressing room for the umpteenth time, trying on a dress, which surprises me, since I always see her in jeans, leggings, and a jersey or sweater.
"Don't laugh, okay? I need your opinion." She slowly opens the door and steps out.
My cock twitches the moment she steps foot out of the dressing room. The dress is a deep blue, and the neckline falls incredibly low while pushing her tits together, giving an ample view of her cleavage.
She rocks the dress. It puts other dresses to shame. But her wearing that for some other guy makes my stomach flop. I don't want her going out with Charlotte inthatdress, pretending to be twenty-one, drinking, partying, having fun, and getting hit on by multiple guys.
"It's slutty," I say. I regret every word that comes from my mouth because she looks hot as sin, and even more so because I hate the word. I clear my throat. "You'll give off the wrong impression unless you're trying to tell every guy at the bar that you're DTF."
"DTF?" she repeats.
"Down to fuck," I say.
Her eyes widen, and she covers her tits, hurrying back into the changing room.
I'm the biggest asshole on the planet. I can't have Amber Ryan, but I don't want anyone else to have her, either.
She doesn't say another word, leaves the dress on the rack near the dressing room, and grabs a couple of pairs of jeans, leggings, and sweaters. Wordlessly, she stalks up to the register.
"Do you need to try any of that on?" I ask.
"Nope." Her answer is cold, calculated, and decisive.
I pull out my brother's credit card, his black Amex when the cashier begins to ring up all the items.
"Put that away," Amber says. "I can pay for my own clothes." She nudges me aside, using her credit card on the register terminal.
I open my mouth to argue, but the cashier is staring at us, and I swear she's about to bite my head off next if I intervene. When she finishes, she asks the sales clerk to take the tags off and if she can use the dressing room to change clothes.
Amber takes her bags with her into the dressing room, and I grab the dress abandoned on the rack that I so eloquently told her made her look like she was willing to get laid. I'm a monster.
I bring it to the cash register while she's changing.
"Are you sure?" the sales lady asks. "You seemed pretty gung-ho on your girlfriend not wearing it."
"She's not my girlfriend," I say and gesture for her to ring the purchase up.
