Page 27 of Against the Clock

His face falls, then shutters, and he smiles at me softly. “Okay, if that’s what makes you more comfortable. Is it okay if I call you? Text you?”

My heart squeezes, so tight it’s uncomfortable, because isn’t this what every woman wants to hear after a one-night stand?

That he’ll call? That he wants me? That this wasn’t just about booty for him, even if it was for me?

“Sure,” I say.

He won’t call. It’s easy enough to say yes when we both know he’s lying.

He’s Daniel Harrison, revered quarterback, and I’m a nobody upstart reporter from USBC-Philly. I’ll probably never see him again, and the only time I’ll see his name light up my screen is when I type up his on-the-record remarks for my piece. His quotes probably won’t even make it on air.

I’ll never taste his name on my mouth again.

So I smile up at him, naked in his bed, and tell him what we’re both pretending he wants to hear.

“Of course,” I say.

CHAPTER 13

DANIEL

In the dim cool of my closet, I can concentrate on finding her a pair of sweatpants. Her jeans are still damp, and she wants to leave now. Already called an Uber, and even managed to miraculously find one out here at this hour.

It shouldn’t hurt that she doesn’t want to stay here while I’m gone, that she doesn’t seem half as affected by our night together as I am. It does, though. It hurts.

I like her. I like what I see in her, her heart and humor, her drive.

I like her a lot.

A muscle in my temple flexes and I pull out a drawer, finding a nondescript pair of sweats that are sure to swallow her whole, along with an old t-shirt—my favorite, actually, from my college days. The college shirt is half her age.

That must be what it is. I’m too old for her, or she thinks so. I know she had a good time last night. At least, I’m pretty damn sure of it.

I know I did.

And I know better than to let a woman like this slip through my fingers. I won’t make the same mistakes I’ve made in the past.

“Hey.” Her soft voice filters through the cracked door, and when I look up, she’s standing there, the glow of the closet lights illuminating her face, her sandy gold hair. “The Uber says it’s five minutes away.” She holds up the phone, and sure enough, the ETA is right there, a ticking time bomb.

“I gotcha,” I tell her, holding out the sweats like they’re the best things I could give her. Fuck, I’d give her half the closet if she’d let me.

Though I’d prefer her naked, the sheet wrapped around her, like she is right now.

Kelsey takes the clothes, clearly self-conscious in the early morning blush of day, not at all like the last woman I took to bed, who wielded her body like a weapon. Though I certainly didn’t mind it at the time, Kelsey’s sweet. Refreshing.

I could really fucking fall for her.

Fucking AFL, taking me away from her for another stupid game. No wonder my ex-wife left me.

They both deserve better than a man who isn’t around.

“What?” she asks, biting her lower lip.

Oh. I’ve been staring at her like a lovestruck idiot, holding the clothes against my chest.

“You have to promise to give me the shirt back,” I say stupidly, looking for any reason to see her again. “It’s my favorite.”

“You don’t have to give me your favorite.” A small laugh slides out of her, and god, I want to fucking taste the sound, I want to live on it.

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