Page 18 of Change Your Play

“I don’t do—”

“Yesterday, didn’t you have a phone conversation with Adam Russell, the Marrs linebacker? Because he was locked in a supply closet at the training center?”

Damn. Ihadtold him about that. “I mean, one of his…girls was chasing him and security hadn’t caught her yet.”

“You’re a PR intern. How is that your job?”

“Well…”

“You do too much for them,” Miles finished.

I stepped in front of the hoop and lined it up. “Three years with Marrs, Miles. That’s what that is. I’m becoming head intern if I’ve got to drag every football player out of a supply closet. And if this is what I’ve got to do, this is what I’ve got to do.”

With a snap of my wrists, the basketball flew up in a nice arc and curved into the basket.

Three points with the little neon numbers.

“Damn.” Miles grinned, gazing down at me. “Andyou can do that? The perfect woman.”

I flushed with pleasure. “It’s the tense shoulders. That’s my secret.”

“I know the perfect thing for tense shoulders.”

“Ibuprofen?”

“That’s a close second.” Miles leaned down to pick up the tickets, and when he stood up again, he was only a couple of inches away from me. His eyes searched my face. Whatever he saw, he must’ve liked, because his words flowed out slow and smooth. “I give the best massages.”

The idea of Miles Locke putting his hands on me like that…running his hands over me like that…drawing out my gasps like that…

Heat pooled between my legs.

“Really?” I managed. “Mechanic boys give the best massages?”

“If you don’t believe me, you could always try it out. Free of charge.”

In that little space of quiet between us, with him gazing down at me, with all his intentions laid out, something caught his eye behind me. A warm glow lit his eyes. “Pictures?”

“Pictures?”

For an instant, I had concerns. I did. Even if Miles didn’t have goals to head to Marrs, meeting with him would’ve raised some eyebrows. No matter how much he made my thighs squeeze together just being around him. But when he said pictures, I didn’t expect the little photo booth in the middle of the arcade.

Except he could barely fit inside.

“Is this on purpose?” I tried to squeeze in while he slipped in the coins.

In an instant, Miles had his arm around my waist and tugged me on his lap. In the cool, dark photo booth, he was there,everywhere. Filling up every space.

Miles grinned up at me, a wolfish, delicious grin that told me exactly what he thought about our predicament.

“It has its perks,” he murmured. “I have a great view.”

The flash burst from the camera and my eyesight left me. “Shit!”

“I didn’t think—”

A laugh burst out of me. “That was quick—wait, it’s counting down!” The numbers flashed over the tiny screen, and I shook my head. “What’re we doing?”

The flash went off again, but the only thing I could think of was to stick out my tongue. Miles didn’t even get the message. The picture developed over the screen, and there was the football player, laughing, at me, the complete dork on his lap.

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