Someone clears their throat. A male. “Hey…you down there. Do you have any clue how hard you are to find?”
I stiffen at the husky words, embarrassed that Ryker has, once again,
caught me with my butt straight up in the air. This time I’m scrounging around on the bookstore floor, looking on every shelf for the right workbook for my next class.
“What do you want?” I say without looking at him, tautness in my tone, although it’s a bit muffled from speaking while bent over.
“You. I told you last night we’d talk, and here I am.”
Ignoring him, I move another collection of books aside on the shelf, but my search is fruitless. A long frustrated groan comes from me.
“We do have a class to get to, so today would be nice,” he says from above me, “although the view from here is stellar. Your curves are…lush.”
He’s staring at my ass.
“Keep your eyeballs in your head, quarterback.” “Hard to do when you’re bent over.”
“Try harder,” I snap.
I huff out a breath and put my hand on the shelf above me to help me stand up. Ryker immediately extends a hand, his fingers clasping mine as he heaves me up. It’s the third time we’ve touched skin to skin—yes, I’m counting—and I inhale sharply as the sensation ripples up my arm and out like waves from a skipped rock on the water. Breathlessly, I stare down at the place where our hands are joined, and he’s looking as well, a look of speculation on his face. He swallows and drops my hand swiftly. His face changes, closing in and shuttering like a window, becoming contained.
No one really knows him, I think, except Maverick.
What I do know is he’s a god on the football field, an authoritative kickass quarterback that has kept Waylon in the top ten of the SEC for the past three years. Back last year, there was even talk of Ryker being a Heisman candidate, but that day is long gone…
I glance down at my hand, my skin burning where we touched, as if an electric current has had its way with me. I press my palm against my leggings.
I blame my reaction on the early morning, my lack of breakfast, and the search for the missing workbook.
“What do you want anyway? I’m busy.”
Amusement gleams in his eyes. “Damn. No one talks to me the way you do.”
I shrug. “I see you for what you are.” A quick smirk. “A hot quarterback?” “An asshole,” I correct him.
“Some girls love assholes.” “I don’t.” My arms cross.
“I think you do. I’ve seen the romance books you bring to class, the ones with bare-chested men on the covers.”
“Those are called alpha-holes.”
“I see. This romance novel thing has its own lingo, then?” “Doesn’t everything?”
He grins. “What kind of football lingo do you know?” “That you’re a gunslinger.”
He straightens, interest lighting his gaze.
I shake my head. “You really think I wrote that article about you and didn’t research the hell out of it? And for your information, a gunslinger is a quarterback whose arm is good for long, deep passes.”
He rubs his jaw. “Are you saying you’re a secret Ryker Voss stalker?” I stiffen. “The interest was strictly professional.”
“So you’ve never checked out my Instagram or Twitter?”
“Never.” Okay, I have. In fact, I did last night after texting with him. All I found were a few pics of him hanging out with Blaze and Maverick, some of his workout routine—damn, his body is tight—and a few random shots of a tiny white kitten.
But…
I won’t let the fact that he likes small animals soften me. He grins. “You blush when you lie, Penelope.”
“I’m not blushing.” My face is hot as hell.
He considers me. “You find what you were looking for down there?”
I huff out a breath and put my hand on my hip. “No. It’s the stupid workbook for class. We’re supposed to have it by today and here I am… scrambling.” I run a hand through my hair.
“You’re stressed out.” It’s a statement, not a question. “Yes.”
He fishes around in his black backpack and pulls out a paperback book, flashing the red and black cover at me, a small grin on his face. “This the one?”
“Don’t tell me you got the last one.”
He shrugs. “Someone delivered it to my dorm before classes started.” “Jersey chaser?” I smirk.
“No, just a service the administration provides for athletes.” He pauses.
“You seem to think I don’t do anything for myself. I assure you; I’m a grown man.”
Indeed, he is.
His broad shoulders shift, calling attention to his untucked, blue pinstriped button-up shirt that’s rolled up, displaying his muscled, tanned arms. My eyes get hung up on his golden arm hair. It’s nothing too crazy, mind you, but something about it on him is so fucking hot that my brain hurts.
I silently curse myself. This predilection for hair has never happened to me before. It’s just…him.
His shirt hugs his chest, shaping and contouring to his muscles. My eyes drift down, taking in the khaki pants that are tight against his crotch.
How big is his cock? Is it in proportion to the rest of his body? Because
damn—
“Penelope.”
I blink. “Yeah?” My gaze finds his and is captured by his piercing blue- green eyes. They gleam as he studies me intently as if trying to suss out something important about me.
It’s like we’re both perplexed when we’re around each other. Again, I blame my lack of sustenance.
I don’t know what his excuse is.
He continues. “I want to help you with something.” “How magnanimous of you,” I say tartly. “But go on.”
“Will you just listen?” He rakes a hand through his long hair and tugs on the ends.
My equilibrium is thrown by the earnestness in his voice, and I chew on my lip. “Fine. Talk.” I lean against the shelf.
He nods. “First of all, the date bet at Sugar’s was not my idea, and I know that’s not an excuse and it’s on me for taking Archer’s bait…” His voice drifts off. “I wanted to apologize right away, but you ran off to the back, and Charisma refused to let me see you. Plus, I did have to get home and change my pants.”
“So I heard.” I cock my hip.
His eyes capture mine. “I’m really sorry I hurt you. It was shitty.” “It was.”
He clears his throat. “I want to do you a solid and make up for the bet.” “Like what?” I could bring up the homecoming party, but I waffle. In the
wee hours of last night, it seemed like a good idea, but I’m not sure being around Ryker is a good idea. He makes me feel weird things.
A slow smile builds on his face as he takes me in, sweeping over my red pointy-toed flats, gray leggings, and roomy black sweatshirt that reads Forks, Seattle. He looks around the bookstore with a bit of bemusement on his face as if he can’t believe what he’s about to say.
“What?” I ask, feeling cross at him because he’s relaxed, and I’m still pissy because I don’t have my workbook.
His eyes come back to me. “Who is it that you want? Answer me that and you’ll know what I’m here to help you with.”
My eyes flare. “You don’t mean Connor, do you?” He nods.
I pause. “You’re going to get Connor Dimpleshitz as my—I’m just throwing out a guess here—boyfriend?”
A shrug. “Let’s just say ‘get you a date’ for now. It’s up to you to make the boyfriend thing happen, although I don’t doubt you can manage it. You’re a pretty girl, and surely, you have game.” His voice is doubtful as he stares at my sweatshirt.
“I have game!”
“Uh-huh.” His tone is dry.
I shake my head. “But…why?”
“Because you like him, and I want to do something nice. In fact…I bet you I can get him to ask you on a date.”
“Really?” I say skeptically. “Another bet? That’s your answer?” He inclines his head. “You know you can’t resist a bet from me.” My eyes narrow. “Who told you that?”
His lips curl up in a grin. “You love to prove me wrong. It’s obvious every time you see me.”
“God, I do love knocking you down a peg.”
He laughs, and I suck in a quick breath at the way it lights up his face. Some of the earlier tension related to the bet fiasco eases, but not all of it. He has apologized—very well, I might add—but I’m still wary. On the other hand, I remind myself I still need a date to homecoming in four weeks, and if he can get me Connor…
“And if you win and he does ask me out, what are the stakes?” “No stakes. Just your forgiveness. I’m doing this for you.” Oh. That’s unexpected. “You really are sorry aren’t you?”
He gives me a small nod. “Yes.”
With a wave of my hands, I indicate my body. “Basically, you’re saying I’m so awful I need help getting male attention?”
“Awful? You’re hot as hell, but I’m going to show you exactly how to have him eating out of your hands.”
A full body flush washes over me. Hot as hell? I mean, sure my hair is long and wavy and my eyes are okay when I’m not hiding them with my glasses…
But I need clarification.
I push up today’s eyeglasses, jade green with little jewels in the corners, and study him. “And just out of curiosity, how would you describe me to a
friend, Ryker? Be honest. Am I the girl with the nice personality? What do I have that’s working for me?”
Am I fishing for compliments from him? AM I? Shit. I am.
He rakes his gaze over me and strokes his chin, studying me. Then he maneuvers to walk around me in a circle.
“What am I? A horse?”
He makes some hmmm noises, the kind I make when I’m working on a serious math problem.
I roll my eyes. “Well, do I pass inspection?” He’s back in front of me and gives me a nod. “Verdict?” I ask, exasperated.
“How tall are you?”
I stand straighter. “Five ten.”
“I dig tall chicks,” he says and then clears his throat. “Tall works well with Connor, too.”
“Mmmm.”
His gaze lingers…everywhere. “Your ass is spectacular, but I can’t see it for your sweatshirt—except when you bend over,” he adds with a grin. “Personally, I like a girl who doesn’t flaunt everything, but Connor…you might need to get his attention. He seems a little unaware of his surroundings.”
He really is! I recall how I would attempt to talk to him last year, and he never noticed.
“So you’re saying my ass is my best asset?”
“No.” He meets my gaze. “Your gray eyes are pretty. I like the little flecks of white and gold around your pupils. They’re nice.”
Nice. I grimace. “Why, Ryker, you’re a poet.”
He shrugs. “Your best asset is your hair. You should wear it down more…” He pauses, his eyes roving over the wavy curls that drape over my shoulder. “Every man who sees it down imagines his hands wrapped around those strands as he’s taking you from behind.”
I can’t breathe. What started out as a fun exchange is now layered with tension and heat. The air grows warm inside the bookstore, even though I’m clearly standing near one of the air conditioning vents.
A long silence follows as we both stare at each other.
I’m ticked that he’s described a submissive scenario, but the hot-blooded woman in me only hears his sex-on-a-stick, husky voice, the one that makes my body vibrate and chime. My head goes to the book I’m reading. I picture us on a ship with billowing masts. He’s wearing a white linen shirt—wet, of course, although I don’t know why, perhaps from sea spray—and his golden hair is mussed. He’s caught me and has me bent over the captain’s wheel, my emerald green silk dress bunched up in the back and held secure with his fists
as he slides his thick cock inside me, his breath ragged, his hands tangled in my hair…
Damn him.
I suck in a deep breath. Forget the pirate! It’s never going to happen!
“I’m always saying crazy shit when I’m around you.” His face is pink as he scrubs at the scruff on his cheeks. “I apologize for being so—”
He freezes, pausing mid-sentence, his eyes over my shoulder. “For being so what?”
But his attention is diverted, and he grabs my shoulders to turn me so I see what he does. “Forget that. Look.”
“What are you doing? Look at what?” His touch is fire, and it makes me nervous and excited at the same time. I wonder what it would feel like to have those big football hands slide down my arms and—
Focus, Penelope. I take a gander around the store, my eyes roving. “I don’t see anything.”
“Look to the left.”
I scan the place. “New nose plugs for the diving team? A new rack of lipstick, which I should probably check out—” I stop on one person, and a small excited squeal of surprise pops out. “Oh my God, The Unicorn is here.” Wearing his signature ball cap and a Wildcats shirt with his glasses tucked into the neckline is Connor, looking so studious and intelligent as he takes in the new line of mechanical pencils, probably to do his math problems with. I look back at Ryker, who’s dropped his hands from my shoulders and is watching my face as I take in my crush. “So, what do I do? How are you going to help me?”
There’s a quizzical look on his face. “Why do you like him anyway?” “He’s smart and nice.”
An eyebrow arches. “That’s all you require? Don’t you think you deserve more?”
I squint up at him. “Like you?”
He shrugs. “Your words, not mine.” “Stuff it, quarterback.”
“But you like him? He’s the one for you?” He narrows his eyes at me. “Why can’t you just talk to him? You talk to me.”
See, that’s the question… “You’re not shy,” Ryker says.
I shake my head. “I’m a bookworm but not shy.” “So?”
I stare at my shoes. It’s easier to be honest when I’m not looking at his chiseled face. “I know you and I will never be a thing, I guess, so it’s easy to talk to you.”
“Ah.”
I nod, feeling the need to clarify. “I don’t date football players.” I play with the gold locket necklace around my neck, the one my mom gave me on my tenth birthday. There’s a picture of her holding me on the day I was born. Just her. Not my dad. “I avoid guys who aren’t likely to stick around. Connor is solid.”
Ryker eyes the necklace then looks back into my eyes. “You could have a hundred Connors if you wanted.”
Damn. That’s sweet.
A small sigh escapes me. “I’m not like the girls you know, Ryker. I’m not a hook-up. I’m a vir—” I stop.
“What?”
I shake my head. “Nothing.”
Several moments pass as we stand there. He’s studying me and then Connor.
I can’t take the silence anymore. “What on earth are you thinking about?” “About how far you’re willing to go to get the guy you want.” He chews
on his bottom lip, a focused look on his face as if he’s contemplating robbing the place.
“You’re scaring me,” I say on a laugh.
A resolute expression flits across his features, like he’s come to a decision. He hands me the coveted workbook. His hand doesn’t touch mine this time, and I think it’s on purpose, but I’m glad. I don’t want to have those kinds of feelings about Ryker, and I guess the desire is mutual.
“First, take this. It’s yours. I don’t want you stressing out today in class.”
I blink down at the workbook. “But then you won’t have one, and Professor White is a hardass—he’ll call you out.”
“Don’t you worry about me, Red. I’ll get one.” His eyes are focused over my shoulder, and I know he’s watching Connor.
I straighten. “No one—and I mean no one—calls me that. Don’t even try.” I frown down at the workbook. “But let’s focus on this. Why are you giving your prize to me?”
“So you won’t be mad when I do this. Just slap me when it’s over.” Slap him? What?
With a flourish, he drops his backpack, sweeps me into his arms, and kisses me in the middle of the bookstore.
