Page 18 of The Hot Shot
I don’t mention seeing him again. We both know that’s not going to happen. He’s already turned back to Jake.
Grabbing my purse and jacket, I slide off the stool. Finn, who has been mobbed by women, wrenches around. His gaze narrows on me. “You leaving?”
“Yep.”
A brunette hangs on his arm, and he slips free of her before stepping back to give me room.
“Night,” I tell him, needing a clean getaway. The longer I linger, the more I’ll like him. I know my time with Finn is akin to getting a glimpse of a shooting star.
He touches my elbow. “I’ll walk you.”
The heat of his fingertips sends little fissures of awareness skittering over my skin. I won’t pretend the attraction between us isn’t there, but it’s superficial at best. Still, I’m not surprised he wants to act on it. From the second he appeared at my shoulder, I’d known his play would arrive, a foregone conclusion with the inevitable cliché ending; hot, cocksure, famous guy bags the woman who gave him shit earlier.
I don’t think he’s trying to be a dick. He’s just following the script. Doesn’t mean I have to.
Two women press in on both sides, wanting to be near him. I glance their way and give them a tight smile. Finn doesn’t acknowledge their presence, but gives me an expectant look.
I put on my jacket then sling my purse over my shoulder. “It’s all right. I’m perfectly fine walking by myself.”
Finn lifts a hand the way cops do when they’re about to give you shit. “Can’t do it, Copper. I won’t feel right not seeing you home.”
“Don’t go all caveman on me, Mannus.”
The guy is like rubber, happily bouncing back with each volley I serve. “Didn’t you know?” he says lightly. “All football players are part cavemen. Some more than others.”
I’d never have thought a six-four, muscle-packed guy could be cute, but he is. And it’s hard to resist him. “Be that as it may, I’m really fine.”
We reach the door, and Finn opens it for me. “Okay then, walkmehome.”
“You?” Despite myself, I pause on the sidewalk, the humid night air wet on my skin.
Finn’s tan skin glows purple in the light of the bar sign. “Yeah. I don’t feel safe going it alone.”
Such innocence in his expression. I bite back a smile. “Where do you live?”
He gives me my address.
Laughing, I shake my head. “Persistent bugger, aren’t you?”
“Again, football player. We don’t give up.”
With that, I find myself being walked home by the quarterback. With the brim of his cap down low over his head and his hands tucked into his pockets, no one seems to notice who he is. He still draws glances; a tall, fit guy with a strong jawline will always get attention. But we walk along unhindered.
Crossing Bourbon Street is a show, as usual. Music blares from all corners, country from one bar, rock from another, blues down the street. Drunks and gawkers flow past us like geese in a flock.
Finn steps closer to me, his arm brushing mine. “You see,” he says, bending low to my ear. “I might have been swept up by the mob if you weren’t here to guard me.”
I snort. “I’m sure it would have been horrible. Dozens of strangers all vying to buy you a drink.”
“Endless women showing me their tits,” he says with an expansive sigh. “And me without any beads to give them.”
“I doubt they’d mind.”
The corners of his eyes crinkle as he looks at me from under his brim. “No. But I’d rather be with you anyway.”
I’m not one to blush. I blame the heat in my cheeks on the balmy night air. “I’m not sleeping with you,” I blurt out.
“All right.”
