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He can’t believe I don’t know who he is.Movedhere? More like traded here. But I’ll play his game—for a while.
“So, we’re both kind of outliers?”
He nods slowly. “I guess so.”
“What table number are you at?”
Rowan pulls his table card from the pocket of his expensive suit and twirls it around in his hand. “Twelve.”
I give him a fake pout. “I’m at fourteen.”
“I guess that tells us where we stand in their lives.” He drops the card on the tablecloth and picks up his drink. “I wasn’t going to come.”
“I’m probably not staying.”
He shifts his stance so that he’s facing me, his left forearm and elbow on the table. I down the rest of my wine, gaze steady on the guests mingling around us.
“Am I that unbearable?”
I glance in his direction, setting my wineglass on the table. “I don’t even know you.”
His blue eyes glitter with amusement as he twirls his glass with his fingers. Long, thick fingers I can’t help but notice. “What do you want to know?”
I shrug. “Nothing in particular.”
His eyes become intense and a little predatory, but I try to act unfazed. Am I really trying to play hard to get with Rowan Landry? He probably already thinks he has me. I don’t need to know his favorite color or what superstitions he has before a big game. I want him to rock my world for one night. That’s all.
“I’m room 1498,” he says.
“And?” I arch a perfectly sculpted eyebrow.
“Figured the way you were eye-fucking me earlier, you’d value that piece of information.”
I abandon my empty wineglass and turn to face him so we’re chest to chest, only a few inches apart. “You’re Rowan Landry, so no, I wasn’t eye-fucking you. My friend pointed you out, that’s all.”
“So, you know who I am?” A smug look washes over his face.
“Really? You’re surprised? You’re in a Chicago hotel. Your trade to the Falcons was broadcast everywhere. But if it’d make you feel better, I can pretend.”
The tips of his lips turn up, and his tongue slides along his bottom lip. Shit, is that something he did as a distraction to take my thoughts off course and only think about having that tongue between my legs? If so, job well done. It totally worked.
He shakes his head. “So, you know me. Now I need to know you. What’s your name?”
That question snaps me back to attention. Shit. There’s no possible way he’d remember me from when he and Conor played together. I was a nerdy high school girl, and he never gave me the time of day. I met him maybe twice. But I’ve heard his name occasionally from Conor, so maybe it’s the same on his end. Then again, Conor can be self-absorbed and probably never talks about me.
“Leigh,” I say, using a shortened version of my name to be safe.
His eyes lock on mine for longer than I’m comfortable with, as if he’s assessing whether I’m telling the truth. This is a one-night thing. Who the hell cares? I’ll never see the guy again. I’ll be one of many in a long line of women who bed Rowan Landry, which is exactly how I want it.
“Nice to meet you, Leigh.”
“So formal after just telling me I was eye-fucking you. Do you want to shake hands like business partners now?”
He shakes his head and studies me for another second. “I like you.”
“Thanks?”
“Do you like me?”
