Page 5 of Beg Me

“But your attempt at crafting a perfect opening wasn’t exactly a success,” I say, ignoring the drip of sweat falling into the hollow at the base of Jory’s throat. “I told you that I wasn’t available.”

Gus rolls his eyes. “You were playing hard to get. It’s fine. But now that you’ve seen him, I’ll give you a moment to reconsider.”

My gaze slides to Jory’s, and suddenly every cell in my body reminds me that I am, in fact, available.

Very, very available.

A crooked grin. Arms and shoulders that are built, not sculpted, as if he uses them to do competent man things on a daily basis. He looks like the kind of man who changes your oil without being asked and coaches kids’ sports teams on the weekends.

The kind of man who does the nastiest, hottest things to you on Saturday night and then gets up for church on Sunday.

I get it, Gus. I’d reconsider if I didn’t know exactly how this story ends.

Jory scrubs the top of Gus’s head. “Do you have any money left, kid?”

“Yeah,” he says, ducking out from under his dad’s reach. “Why?”

“Go grab a milkshake from inside the barn.”

“I’m not thirsty.”

Jory’s eyes narrow playfully. “Then get thirsty.”

“Ooh,” Gus says, nodding. “I see.” He turns to me as he backs away with a smile stretched across his face. “I’m parched. You two crazy kids behave while I’m gone.”

I watch as he disappears inside the building.

“You have one heck of a wingman,” I say, laughing once Gus is out of sight. “I don’t know if you’ve trained him to do that or if he’s just naturally that ornery, but I know grown men with far less game than your son.”

“His charm is genetic. He gets it from me. Clearly.”

I try not to smile. “Clearly.”

Jory moves aside, making room for another customer to purchase a jar of jam. My attempt at small talk isn’t my best work because my attention keeps slipping to the man whose presence fiddles with my ovaries.

I watch him out of the corner of my eye as a woman from the next stall turns too quickly, bumping into Jory and sending a spray of lemonade across the front of his shirt.

“I’m so sorry,” she says, horror flashing across her face. “I didn’t see you.”

“It’s not a problem.” He looks down at the splotches on his chest before giving her an easy smile. “I have to wash it anyway.”

Her relief makes the corner of my mouth twitch as I return to my customer.

I wrap up the sale, somehow convincing the nice lady visiting Sugar Creek from out of town to add the final jar of cherry to her order, and then turn to find Jory still there. He moves closer, the air carrying a hint of his cologne—something rich and masculine but with a brightness that evokes curiosity. I have the irrational urge to lean in and inhale him.

Once he stops in front of me, I catch the logo on the front of his shirt.

“The Tennessee Royals?” I ask, pointing at his chest. “I have a friend who plays for them.”

“That’s funny. I play for them, too.”

My brows pull together in suspicion. Men will lie about the dumbest things to get attention, but it tracks. He’s tall, capable of tossing me over his shoulder and running a few miles, and those legs? Tree trunks. Just like Gray’s.

“You know Gray Adler?” I ask.

“Hell, yeah, I know him. He’s a good guy. Great teammate.”

I grin. “He’s kind of grumpy and can be an ass, if we’re being honest. But, yeah, he’s a pretty good guy.”