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Baylor cocks his head as though taken aback, and then gives his neck a scratch.
“Well,” he says slowly. “No, I haven’t.” A wide grin breaks over his face, all charm and dimpled hotness. “I can see that bothers you.”
“Wrong. It simply reinforces my original impression of you.”
“As what? Honest?”
He leans in close. Close enough to notice that his breath doesn’t smell like beer, and that his eyes have a ring of deep brown around the gold irises. “Here’s the thing, Jones, I don’t understand how you can find that a problem.”
I blink and force myself to focus on something other than his eyes. “You don’t see how never being told ‘no’ isn’t a problem?”
His smile deepens. “Stop being obtuse. You’re talking about my irresistibility. I’m talking about my honesty. Two vastly different topics.”
My lips twitch. Damn it. “I don’t recall saying you were irresistible.”
“Besides,” he goes on as if I haven’t spoken. “I can’t see what sort of culpability I have in girls wanting to get to know me. It’s not like I’m bribing them or scheming to have my ‘wicked way’ with them. It is what it is.”
I stare at him a long moment, one in which he grins his goofy grin and I fight the goober urge to return it.
“You know what? You’re right.”
“Finally!” he says to no one in particular before smiling down at me.
“So let’s put it this way. I could not care less about football. I don’t give a shit who you are or what you do or—”
My tirade dies when he leans so close that our noses practically touch. The look in his eyes isn’t angry. It’s triumphant. “Exactly, Jones.”
Two words and he’s knocked the wind out of my sails. His not wanting me to fawn all over him is the last thing I expect. I start to frown. Maybe I even do.
“Well, hell.”
He bursts out laughing. A rich, full laugh that’s so infectious, I respond to it, snorting a little as I try to keep from laughing too. Our eyes meet, and the air between us abruptly shifts. Base heat swamps me so fast that I lose my next breath. Maybe he does too because he goes still. A lion about to pounce. I blink back, the gazelle caught out in full sunlight.
But then a lumbering form comes up to us, and a big hand slaps down on Baylor’s shoulder.
“Battle, my man,” says the hulking guy who has to be one of Baylor’s linemen. “Sandra here wants to say hello.”
It’s like I’m not even there. Not to the Hulk, who bumps me back with his arm, as he gestures to some eighteen-year-old with a coy smile. Not when she slinks up to press herself against Baylor’s arm.
“Hey, Battle,” she breathes—breathes it, because I’m not sure I heard any actual consonants. “Will you sign my shirt?”
Of course she’s wearing his jersey, the number eleven splayed across her breasts. It’s no shocker when she points directly to that area, in case he wasn’t sure where he should sign.
I want to roll my eyes but don’t. She’s not the problem here. Baylor isn’t even the problem. I am.
“Well then,” I say. “I’ll leave you to it.”
I turn and flee, hearing him call my name. But I don’t look back.
I nearly reach the hall when he steps in front of me, halting my progress.
“Hold up.” Baylor’s lips pull in a pout, which should look petulant but simply makes him hotter. “I thought we were having a conversation.”
“I think it was more like bickering,” I say, and when he starts to smile, I hurry on. “And it was clearly over.”
“Why? Because of that interruption?” He gives a little jerk of his head in the direction of his number one fan.
I shake my head. “Don’t let me keep you, honestly.”
