“Humor me,” he said. “If you had showed up and Biff’s had been an Ohio State bar, what would have happened?”
It was hot under his intense stare, and it felt like he could see deep down into me. I’d run some scenarios in my head on the drive up here. A few of them had even ended with an invite back to his place. But no way in hell would I accept one now. “We’ll never know, because that dumb bar is named after an even dumber stuffed wolverine. Which, by the way, is creepy as hell.”
The waitress plunked down a bowl of creamers and poured a cup of coffee for Jay. I watched his long fingers fish out several sugar packets, tear them open, and dump them in his cup, followed by two creamers.
He had beautiful hands. Large, and powerful looking. God, it was so unfair.
“Here’s what I’m thinking would have happened.” His spoon clattered against the ceramic mug as he stirred, but his gaze stayed on me. “I’d buy you a drink, get your number, and we’d talk for a while. When it got late, I’d walk you to your car, and then I’d kiss the shit out of you.”
My pulse quickened.
“Like I did on Saturday,” he continued. “Remember when I told you that was halftime? We’ve still got a whole other half to play.”
Football metaphors. So cheesy, and yet it totally got to me. “That break was way too long to call halftime.” I regretted it instantly because I’d just engaged with him. Opened a hole for him to slip right through.
Jay smiled widely. “Okay, give me a delay of game. It’s not the first time I’ve drawn a penalty.” The spoon was set aside, and he leaned forward on the table. His voice went soft and seductive. “You can set me back five yards and make me try again. You should know, though, when I want something, I’m driven as fuck.”
The conviction in his eyes made my mouth go dry. Beneath the table, I crossed my legs, squeezing back the rush he gave me. It was the combination of all of it. The word that got me thinking about sex, the way he equated kissing me to a touchdown, and of course, his delivery. The idea of kissing Jay again was so very wrong, and yet the wrongness kind of turned me on.
Shouldn’t it be more proof I should walk away? And who the hell was I? Thinking about kissing a guy from Michigan? My mother would die from the betrayal. I tore my gaze away from him and stared at the ugly tabletop. “Never going to happen.”
He made a noise that sounded like, “We’ll see.”
He picked up his cup of coffee and took a sip, but set it down quickly. “Wow, you made the right call. The coffee’s gross. Not end-of-days tofurkey bad, but pretty awful.”
“Then I guess there’s no reason to stay,” I said. “You can take me back to my car now.”
“Not yet. We just got here.” He gestured to my purse. “Do you have a pen in that duffle bag there?”
Okay, so maybe my purse was a little on the large side, but I liked to be prepared, and my big bag made that possible. Besides holding all my woman stuff, like makeup, I had athletic tape, wet wipes and pretty much an entire first aid kit inside. And . . . a pen or two. My gaze narrowed. “Maybe. Why?”
He grinned. “I figure you want my autograph.”
I gave him a flat look, telling him just how hilarious I thought his joke was.
“You know why I want a pen.” He leaned back and smoothed a hand down his t-shirt. My gaze followed its path, even when I didn’t want it to. I was sure he’d done it on purpose, giving me a hint of how toned his chest was, dragging my focus lower. “If you won’t give me one, I’ll just ask our server, but I figured this was faster.”
If faster meant we could leave sooner, I was all for it. The longer I sat across from him, the more desensitized I was becoming to thinking of him as number eighty-eight for the enemy. He was rapidly morphing into a regular, normal guy. One who looked so handsome, it almost hurt. I rummaged around until I found a pen and slid it across the tabletop to him.
He freed a napkin from a roll of silverware and scribbled on it. “Your dad coached defense, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“Your parents still together?”
Why did he want to know? “Yes.”
“Any brothers or sisters?”
The pen continued to scratch at the napkin. Was he writing a novel? Finally, he clicked the pen closed and straightened, as if admiring his work. His attention drifted back to me, waiting on my answer.
“I have a younger brother.”
Jay folded the napkin, but didn’t hand it to me. “Does he play football?”
“What’s with the interrogation?”
“You’re the one making it that way. I’m trying to have a conversation.”
Anxiety built with every passing moment, yet he seemed to grow calmer. More confident. He was like me, who usually flourished under pressure.
“Yeah,” I said, refusing to be beaten. “Cooper plays football. He’s a tight end like you. Only, unlike you, he’s not that good.”
Jay’s eyes gleamed. “Oh, yeah? You think I’m good?”
Warmth crept over my cheeks at my slip. I’d just implied a Michigan football player wasn’t awful. My stomach was queasy. “I mean, I assume,” I lied. “You have to be, to play Division I football. I’m doubting your pretty face is what makes you a starter.”
Oh, no. His smile went next-level. “Awe, you think I’m pretty, Kayla?” Seduction poured from his expression. “I’m nothing compared to you.”
The booth was getting smaller with every breath I took. It was starting to feel intimate. How much worse was it going to be when I got into his car? Maybe I’d walk the two miles back to Biff’s in my heels just to avoid the situation.
I glanced around the empty diner, studying the dingy tile floor that seemed like it hadn’t been mopped this decade, but it didn’t matter where I looked. I could feel his unwavering gaze on me.
“All right.” His deep voice forced my attention back to him. His expression was matter-of-fact. “I’m going to cut the bullshit. You’re hot. Fun. Probably smart, although not so much right now. I’m not too bad either. Quite a catch—at least, my mom tells me I am.”
My breath caught in my lungs. “Your point is?”
“I think we should try this. The rivalry thing? It’s one little detail.”
“Little detail?” He was delusional. Most of Ohio didn’t care if OSU’s record was one-and-eleven as long as that one win was over Michigan.
He held out the napkin, waving it like a white flag. “My number. I wrote it twice, because I’m not fucking it up a second time.”
Besides his full name, he’d scrawled two matching phone numbers, and then a third number—eighty-eight. Like an autograph. I looked at it with disdain.
“We’re not leaving until you put that in your suitcase,” he teased. Although he might have been serious.
“My purse is not that big.”
He scoffed. “It’s the same size as you.”
“Yeah, well, we can’t all be ogres,” I grumbled.
“Me? I’m too pretty to be an ogre.”
“Okay, fine, but you’re dumb tall.”