Page 35 of Scoring Eden

Sebastian never did any of those things. He never let me get a dog, even though it wouldn’t have impacted his life at all since he was never at home, and in the years that we were together, I don’t think he complimented me once. He never told me I looked beautiful on the nights when he needed me on his arm for some kind of work event, and the expression on his face on the rare occasion when he looked at me was far less goopy than it was resentful.

I clear my throat. “Right, well, then I guess you do that, then.”

He beams. “Are you saying I get to grab your ass?”

“I can’t imagine a scenario where that would be necessary.”

“But if there was?”

My stomach dips at the thought of his hand on me there. “Then I’ll reassess.”

Alex nods, pleased with himself. Though I doubt he’ll be all that pleased should that situation ever arise. I imagine he’s grabbed an entire soccer stadium’s worth of asses better than mine. Scratch that. I’m being humble. I have a great ass.

He leads me toward the sofa and indicates for me to sit before grabbing two glasses of water from the kitchen.

I crush my hands between my knees and try not to notice the way his abs ripple as he falls into a seat across from me or the deep cut of the V lines that lead below his sweatpants.

“Earth to Eden.” Fingers click an inch from my face. “You’re staring again.”

Shit, I’ve gotta stop doing that.

I grab a glass of water and guzzle it. “I was just wondering how a man who plays sports for a living could be so out of shape.”

There. That sounded cool, confident, and appropriately disparaging. Not a hint of arousal in my tone at all.

He runs a hand down his abs, squeezing his lips together. “I took it easy in the off season. Only managed to hit the gym twice a day.”

Why has my mouth gone dry?

I gulp my water again and clear my throat. “Yes, well…it shows.” Damn it. My voice is still husky.

“Have I told you how great you are for my ego?” He laughs, setting his glass down on the black-wood coffee table and slapping his thighs. Broad thighs. Strong-looking thighs. “Give me a sec. I’ll go cover myself up.”

When he returns in a fresh t-shirt, my glass is empty. I had to down the entire thing just to get some moisture in my mouth again. He eyes it with a smirk but thankfully doesn’t comment.

“We need to talk logistics,” he says, serious. “The party is tomorrow night, and people are going to be curious. They’ll be asking us a lot of questions, analyzing how we are with each other, wanting to know everything about the woman who tied down Alex Wolfe.”

“Is it necessary to address yourself in the third person?”

“Do you think we can have a conversation without you busting my balls every twenty seconds?”

Touché.

“Fine.” I pluck a jet-black throw cushion from beside me and hug it in my lap. “Carry on.”

He rubs a hand across his jaw, which is clean-shaven and soft. I bet his moisturizer costs more than my rent.

“I don’t know anything about you, other than that you have a son, a troublesome sister, and a penchant for the color pink.”

I shrug. “That’s kind of all there is to know about me.”

“What about your childhood and stuff? Favorite food? Hobbies? You’ve gotta give me something.”

Talking about myself isn’t fun.

Talking about myself is, in fact, depressing as hell, especially to a star athlete who plays for one of the most successful teams in the States.

Because here is a man in the prime of his life, who lives in a luxury apartment in the city center with a doorman and underground parking garage. Whereas I am a high school dropout and a now unemployed former receptionist, whose only achievement in life is her ten-year-old son who might be taken away from her. And yes, I may now have a million dollars sitting in my bank account, but he’s the one who put it there.