Page 22 of The Hot Shot
“No. Yes.” I shake my head and laugh. “I don’t know.”
He grins then. “You’re cute when you’re flustered.”
“I’m not flustered.”
I am.
As if we’ve come to some silent agreement, we head down the aisle to the register, drawing a double take from some skinny guy buying a bag of M&M’s. The cashier gapes at Finn, but doesn’t say a word as she rings me up. She also misses the bag by a foot when she attempts to put my gelato in it. I help her out by bagging my own stuff so she can continue to stare at Finn. He takes it all in easy stride.
Out on the street, Finn nudges me with his arm. He does it gently, barely a tap, and yet I feel the strength in him. “This makes two times now we’ve run into each other,” he says.
“I’m still not convinced about the whole stalking thing.”
He leans down a touch, so we’re nearly face-to-face. “I think it’s fate telling us to hang out.”
“Hang out, huh?” The truth is, I don’t want to go home now. I want to linger on this humid sidewalk and hear what ridiculous thing will come out of him next. But I have gelatomelting. “I don’t know why. We’ve been at each other’s throats since we met.”
“Ah, Chessie, that’s just the way we play.” He nudges my shoulder again. “Tell me you haven’t had any fun with me. Come on.”
I can’t. And he knows it.
His smile turns soft. “I like you.”
He likes me. I want to grin like a twelve-year-old. I imagine this is how it feels to be passed a note by the hottest guy in school.
“Is that so hard to believe?” he asks.
Not hard exactly. More like unexpected and strange. Yesterday, he was just some dickhead jock giving me shit. Now he’s telling me we should hang out. And what does that even mean?
I’ve been silent for too long, because he speaks again, soft, cajoling. “I think you like me, too.”
Hell. I do. That’s the most unexpected thing of all. He’s unlike anyone I know. A challenge and yet easy to talk to. He’s also a famous, extremely hot football player who has beautiful women throwing themselves at him. In a world full of bad bet men, he’s at the top.
“I’m just not sure what you expect to get out of this,” I explain. “A date?”
Finn rubs the back of his neck, looking as perplexed as I feel. “I’m fairly crap at dating, Chess.”
Disappointment hits me like a brick to the chest. But I nod in understanding. “I’m fairly crap at hookups,” I tell him. “I’ve run through that playbook and don’t particularly like it.”
His brows lift with a pleased expression. “Look at you using football terms.”
I bite back a laugh. “I thought I’d speak to your level.”
His amusement slowly slides away. “Last night, I did see you from the street. I went into the bar to talk to you. Even before that—at dinner—I was thinking about you.”
I make a sound of shock.
He doesn’t seem to notice. “I dreaded that photoshoot. You turned it around and made it bearable. All the bullshit just went away.”
“That’s part of my job,” I say weakly. It isn’t a lie. But with him, I’d stopped thinking about getting a good shot.
And though we’ve just met, he appears to know that, too.
“And last night at the bar?” he counters. “Right now? You aren’t working.”
“I...”Shit.
“Everyone in my life is connected to football. I don’t get true interactions very much. And, if I do, they’re fleeting. But I have them with you.” A line creases between his brows. “Does that make sense?”
