Page 10 of Against the Clock

The sardonic way she says game tells me she is not, in fact, all good.

My hands flex on the wheel and I resist the urge to grab her hand and make her tell me what’s bothering her.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

Am I feeling so possessive and protective of her out of some guilt about what happened? It’s fucking weird. It’s out of character.

“Football is dangerous,” she continues, crossing her arms over her chest. “It was stupid to forget that, even temporarily.”

“You don’t like football,” I say randomly. Better that than insisting on rubbing some of the Icy Hot I keep in the center console all over her body.

Her reaction is immediate. The gentle smile on her face disappears, her gaze shuttering. “What makes you say that?”

I bite my tongue, trying not to tell her that I was searching for anything to say besides, “I wanna fuck you right now, in my truck,” and landed instead on intuition I wasn’t sure I still possessed.

“A guess,” I say instead, turning onto the Benjamin Franklin Bridge.

She’s silent for a moment, staring out at the boats leaving a frothy wake in the Delaware River.

“Where are we going? There are so many good restaurants in the city,” she says, her expression confused.

She doesn’t want to tell me why she doesn’t like football. That’s fine. Not everyone likes football. A little weird, considering she’s on a date with me, a professional football player, but I’ll get her to tell me eventually.

Maybe it’ll be fun.

Hell, maybe it’s better she’s not one of the jersey-chasing groupies.

“There are,” I agree. “But this place is my favorite. The Matthews brothers—do you know them? Probably not, considering…” She shoots me a look, and I clear my throat before continuing. “They both play on the team. Unusual that they signed brothers, but they’re a lot of fun. Anyway, they took me to this place during training camp, and they make some of the best cheesesteaks and pork rolls I’ve ever had.”

“Now that’s heresy.” Kelsey laughs, and I swear to god, I could get addicted to that sound. “Driving to South Jersey for cheesesteaks? I didn’t think you were a deviant.”

“I wouldn’t steer you wrong, Kelsey Cole,” I say, and it comes out much more sincere than I meant.

The press would probably say I’m getting soft in my old age, but this woman… I like the idea of her. I like all my ideas about her.

I want to steer her exactly right.

Or maybe I’m just fucking hard-up and willing to cling to the first curvy body I’ve slammed up against in over a year.

I sneak another quick glance at her, her dark blonde waves partially obscuring her face. My hand twitches on the wheel, the desire to push it back behind her ear, to lose myself in the softness of her body so intense I have to grit my teeth.

“My ex wouldn’t have wanted to eat at this place,” I say, then mentally kick myself.

“The supermodel?” she asks.

“This is off the record,” I say, trying to gloss over the fact that only a fucking idiot brings up their ex on a goddamned first date.

“Sure,” she says, her eyebrows raised. God, I like her eyes. I like how they’re the warm brown of hot cocoa, maybe with a kick of spice you didn’t expect. Mexican hot chocolate.

“Not the supermodel. My ex-wife.”

“Not a fan of cheesesteak?” she asks.

“Not a fan of local dives,” I say. “Although, I have to say it: Cheez Whiz isn’t for everyone.”

“Cheez Whiz is the way,” she says solemnly, then grins up at me.

“This is the way,” I agree, fucking loving the way she beams even brighter, like I flipped a switch on her.

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