Page 1 of Out of Bounds

1

Kassie

Not A Background Character

If I’m being incredibly, earnestly, and a hundred percent honest here, I should’ve clocked that something was wrong the moment I sat down at the table.

Because who was supposed to sit at the table was Henry Miller, top-notch animation director. My personal hero. I’d sweat and bled over a five-page essay to meet him in a contest sponsored by my college, Marrs University.

And who sat at the table was the furthest thing in the world from him.

"Becky," the man said, with a low, smooth voice, liquid honey.

The man relaxing in the chair next to me was a man—capital M—Man.

And he was definitely not Henry Miller.

Six-foot-two. The restaurant’s chair looked like it belonged in a kids’ classroom with him sitting on it. He was just…big. Big arms, long legs comfortably stretched out, and the kind of hands I would have loved to draw in a sketch class. Prominent lines and long fingers.

An amused smile played on his lips as he gazed back at me. Dark, messy hair. A delicious scruff over his jaw. Intense, dark honey eyes, just like his voice. This wasn't a background piece—he was a main character.

Hold up. Rewind the tape.

"Did you say Becky?" I asked, confused.

The man—capital M—frowned. "Isn’t it Becky?"

"Do I look like a Becky to you?" I tried to keep the flustered touch out of my voice. I needed answers, not to be dazzled by the superhero movie stunt double. "Who’s Becky? And you—who are you? You're not Mr. Miller."

"Who?" Those intense eyes bore into mine. "Like the beer?"

"Like thebeer?"

"You won the contest."

I gave him a long look. "Please tell me you’re not another contestant."

"You wrote the paragraphs?"

Paragraphs? This guy won another spot with paragraphs?!

"First of all, I wrote five pages, took a bazillion shifts to get here, and, no offense, did not do all that to meet whoeveryouare. Now, have you seen Henry Miller?"

"I get what’s happening." The Greek god of a man grinned even wider as he started clapping. "This is a joke," he continued. "You write about the Romans—"

I stared, dumbfounded. "Thefootballteam?"

"—and pretend like you don’t know who I am. It creates interest, so I don’t think you’re into me?"

Taking a moment, I blinked at him while cameras clicked into place. "What the absolute hell are you talking about?"

The gorgeous man was unperturbed by my question. "You don’t have to go the whole nine yards."

His smirk was the worst part of it. The all-knowing, surely pleased with himself, smirk that was entirely unjustified.

"Oh! I don’t, do I?" I huffed. "Wow! Thank goodness for that!"

Not only did I have to deal with the most aggravating man in the world, but I had a pounding headache behind my eyes. With my early morning bookstore shift, the emergency meeting at the bar on Overstrand Street, and college classes, I didn’t get a chance to eat. It wasn’t a new thing. When bills run high, it’s easier to skip a meal.

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