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“I’ll be at the game on Monday,” he says, dropping his palm to my thigh.
I flinch and don’t even try to hide my body’s visceral reaction to his touch.
He doesn’t seem to notice or care, leaving his hand to rest there when he says, “My dad is a season ticket holder. So, after the game, maybe I can take you out for that drink?”
“I’m sorry, but can you please take your hand off me?”
He huffs an uncomfortable laugh. “What?”
I turn my body away from him, into the couple of inches of space I have. “Your hand. Can you please take it off me?”
“Okay...” The word is drawn out as if my question made me an absolute freak. Maybe I am.
He lifts his hands, both of them, holding them up in surrender as if what I said to him was threatening, and not a simple request.
I wish Isaiah were here.
Vincent attempts to save the moment. “So, what do you do for fun?”
“I uh... I work a lot. Or study. I’m kind of always trying to keep up on the newest research in my field, and I enjoy my alone time. I’ve gotten pretty good at entertaining myself over the years.”
The face he makes... Oh God.
“So you’ve clearly been single a while, huh?”
How am I so bad at this?
“What do you do in your free time?” I ask.
“I spend a lot of my time at the gym. Play golf. I work for my dad, so I kind of make my own schedule.”
He’s literally every boy I ever grew up with.
I miss Isaiah.
His conversation. The way he looks at me. How he knows my cues, when to speed up. When to slow down.
He’s simply across the field and I miss him.
“Do you have a last name, Kennedy?” Vincent asks as he once again steps into my space and places his hand on my shoulder, completely disregarding that I asked him not to.
I flinch, but it’s only there for less than a second before his hand is forcibly removed.
Isaiah shoves him back a step.
“Rhodes,” he says. “Her last name is Rhodes. Now get your fucking hands off my wife.”
“Whoa, man,” Vincent says with an awkward laugh. “It’s cool. I’m a big fan of yours.”
“I don’t give a fuck who you are.” Isaiah puts his body between us. “She asked you not to touch her.”
“She didn’t tell me she was married.”
“She doesn’t have to tell you shit. You clearly don’t listen anyway.” Isaiah grabs my left hand that’s sandwiched between my legs and places it on the bar top. “But there’s your fucking evidence.”
“Everything okay, here?” a security guard steps up and asks.
“No. He needs to go.”
