He had a point.
“I didn’t have time to pick up something of my own, and I’m too exhausted at night and in the morning to pack something.”
“Make time.”
“I crash as soon as I get home,” I said. “But thanks for your concern about my well-being.”
“I’m concerned about how half-assed you perform every task because you have no energy,” he retorted. “Why didn’t you get something from the grocery store?”
“Because the gourmet-piece-of-shit store you sent me to is more overpriced than my overpriced sandwich! Not everyone can afford to shell out twenty bucks for a premade sandwich filled with eight tons of kale, you know. But I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”
“And why’s that?”
I snorted out a laugh. “Seriously? You told me you make insane amounts of money. I live in a two-bedroom apartment—or two-closet apartment—with my father, while drowning in enough student debt to ensure I will never pay it off until I’m in my fifties. And I grew up just as poor as I am now, with my mom making miracles out of canned beef stew, herbs, and rice. I’ve always been poor, and it will just follow me into adulthood because I didn’t have the luxury of some sports scholarship and a ride into the NFL—”
“I’m gonna stop you right there, baby.” Gavin hunched forward and stared me down, his golden eyes blazing like twin suns. “You think going to school on a sports scholarship was fun?”
“Yes,” I said. “I think you got a free ride while being treated like a god, probably having tons of academic assistance, and a ton of vagina thrown at you from so many angles you were ducking and weaving your way through parties.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. And I bet you had teams and agents throwing money at you the entire time, too.”
Gavin jutted a finger in my direction, his favorite move. “For such a smart guy, it sounds like you watched too much TV as a kid. You’ve only got about thirty percent of the story.”
“Oh yeah?” I asked, mimicking him. “So enlighten me. Tell me of your football-hero struggle.”
He licked grease off his fingertips. “That whole easy-living, sports-scholarship fairy tale you’re thinking about only pans out for chumps who grew up privileged enough to have their scholarship supplemented with money from their folks. My scholarship paid for room, board, and cafeteria meals. That’s it. And as you can see, I need more than cafeteria meals to survive. I also needed money for laundry, school supplies, transportation, clothes, and daily living in general.” Gavin took another giant bite of his burger. “So, until I started being courted by agents with money and gifts I couldn’t legally accept, I was a slave to this sport and my coaches.”
Now I felt stupid.
“Okay, that sounds exactly like my life in college minus the brutal physical training and stuff. I guess I thought you got extra money because of the sports stuff.”
“College football players didn’t start getting stipends until recently.”
“That’s nuts.”
Gavin shrugged and finished off his second burger.
“Well, I still bet girls threw their vaginas at you.”
He snorted out a laugh, caught himself, and stabbed the pile of seafood salad. “And I bet a few closeted professors went to town on your ass.”
“Who says I’m a bottom?”
“Are you saying you aren’t?”
Why had I started this?
“No comment. Why do you think I’d sleep with a professor?”
“You saying you never did?”
I had. Two, in fact. But the fact that he’d jumped to that correct conclusion so quickly irked me. Like I’d been walking around with an invisible acronym for Professor-Fucker branded on my forehead in bright red.
“I’m just curious why that was the first thing you assumed.”
“Because you’re a stuck-up little snob, and I bet even college-boy Noah wouldn’t bend over for anyone less than a professor with a tweed jacket and Chuck Taylors because he thought that made him look youthful.” Gavin arched an eyebrow and his mouth spread in a slow smirk. “I also bet you like older guys. Dudes who lounge around sipping espresso and smoking cigars while discussing the state of the world and the fucking literary canon.”
“As opposed to guys who sit around yelling at me about how many calories they need to eat?”
This time when Gavin grinned, it seemed genuine. “Any particular reason why you’re comparing them to me?”
“I figured that’s what you were doing since you seem so salty about my taste in men,” I countered. “Disliking jocks doesn’t mean I’m cruising the AARP crowd.”
“Didn’t say they had to be old. Just that you’re probably into older dudes too, since you probably go for powerful men. Maybe even men who have some kind of power over you. Like a professor. Or a boss.” That little smirk widened. “Maybe that means I have a shot at you after all.”
“You wish. Too bad you’re not my type.”
“Oh yeah? What’s your type?
“You can keep wondering about it.”
“I will,” he said, giving me a slow once over.
I knew he was going out of his way to mess with my head. There was absolutely no way Gavin Brawley was coming on to me. But I could still do nothing but watch in bewildered silence as he scraped up the last of his seafood salad and got to his feet. He glanced between me and the plate, before shoving the untouched and carefully-set-aside third burger across the table.
“Eat your fucking burger.”
“But—”
He walked away without another word, and I ate the fucking burger. I was two chews in before realizing I could have seasoned it better, and told myself to call my mother that evening to beg for some fast and easy, high-protein, low-carb recipes. She’d become a total health nut after moving to California, and she’d get a kick out of me wanting to use the hell out of this fancy kitchen to cook for someone I hated. Or was supposed to hate. I was still unsure of where I stood in that regard.
After practically licking the plate clean, I washed up and returned to the office. I’d expected to find it in the same mess I’d left it, but Gavin was sprawled in the middle of it all and once again doing his big blond cat rendition.
I stood awkwardly in the doorway, unsure of what to do. Normally he made tracks while I worked, but here he was . . . lounging sexily.
“Do you need something?”
“Yeah.” Gavin didn’t look up as he jerked his chin at the Rubbermaid container. He was rooting around for something. “Since you never got around to riding mechanic boy, did you look into those charities for me?”
I crossed my arms over my chest. “Can I ask you a question?”
“I hate when people do this. Marcus does the same shit all the time. Asks if he can ask something he’ll end up asking anyway. What the fuck, are you trying to build suspense?”
I ignored his ranting. “You are aware that all of your talk about my personal life is still sexual harassment even though we’re both men. Right?”
Gavin’s mouth dropped open, but he closed it quickly with a click. “Am I making you that uncomfortable?”