Page 22 of Before I Loved You

“So, are you a professional artist?” he asks.

“Me? Oh no.” I scoff at the idea. “I wish, but unfortunately, art doesn’t pay the bills unless you’ve made it big.” I shake my head. “No, I’m a finance major. I just started an internship over at the financial district at LH United, hoping to work my way up to being a financial analyst.”

“Well, that sounds—”

“Boring,” I answer for him, knowing it’s what everyone thinks.

“I was going to say safe,” he replies, the corners of his lips tugging up.

“Safe. I guess you’re right.” I pluck a red leaf that fell from the branch above me onto my dark denim jeans. But I guess having a safe job is the only suitable option when you’ve lived a life like mine. “And what do you do?”

He looks at me curiously, his brows furrowing. “You really don’t know who I am, do you?”

“Am I supposed to?” I ask, raising a brow. “Are you offended I don’t?”

He chuckles. “No. Not at all. It’s refreshing.”

His eyes settle on me, and his smile instantly trickles warmth over every square inch of me.

The longer we stare at each other, the more I feel my cheeks redden. Pushing my hair back, I say, “Well, are you going to leave me in suspense or…”

“Right. Sorry.” He shakes his head. “I’m a basketball player. I’ll most likely be playing in the NBA next year.”

“Basketball.” I nod, pursing my lips, not knowing a damn thing about the sport. “So I take it you’re good if you’re going into the NBA?”

He hesitates before admitting, “I’m okay.”

“Hmm,” I ponder.

“What?”

I look up at him with a teasing smile. “Just thought you would have been more of a hockey player.”

He chuckles. “Nah. I’d look like a giraffe on skates.”

“But a sexy giraffe,” I offer, stifling a laugh.

“You think so?”

“Oh, definitely.” I bite my bottom lip, tilting my head. “Let me guess. You’re the guy who puts the ball in the net.”

“How’d you know?” His lips curve up. “What, are you stalking me now?” His arm playfully bumps into mine.

“Ha. That would have been pretty hard to do when I didn’t have your name or anything to work off of. Even the bartender from that night was no help with me finding your—”

Shit. I cover my mouth with my hands. I’ve said too much.

Paul’s brows raise, and his smile widens. “Oh, so you were stalking me?”

Heat spreads from my face down my chest. I move my hands to the top of my thighs, rubbing back and forth, looking anywhere but at him. “No. Umm, I didn’t mean—”

“Sarah?”

“Yeah?” I hesitantly look up at him, biting my bottom lip.

“I’m just messing with you.”

I smack the top of his bicep, the very muscular and solid bicep, making him laugh. “Don’t do that to me. I have enough on my plate.”

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