Page 68 of Never You

They mumble a couple of ‘sorry’s’, averting their gazes while I hold back a grin as they take off as quickly as they came.

“You couldn’t catch it?” He scowls from under his sunglasses.

“I don’t catch.”

“You don’t catch?”

I snort, folding my hands in front of my mouth when I look at him glaring back at me. He seems broader than usual, looking damn sexy with his fuming stance. He looks like he’s ready to rip someone’s head off. It will probably be me if I don’t stop laughing, but I just can’t help myself.

“I don’t catch,” I repeat, shaking my head.

“Who doesn’t catch?” Jensen frowns. “Nobody! If you see a ball, you catch it. You place your hands up in the air, and you at leasttryto catch,” he adds, unsatisfied.

“I don’t,” I say, shrugging my shoulders with my smile still in place.

Special thanks to Jimmy Kavinsky, who threw a volleyball into my face in eighth grade. After that, I was done. I vowed then and there I wasn’t even gonna try anymore. I don’t catch.

“Who the fuck doesn’t catch?” He mumbles again, only adding to my amusement.

“Come on, grumpy.” I grab the napkin I’d pushed into my back pocket earlier and take a step forward as my hand reaches up to wipe the barbecue sauce off his cheeks. “We’ll buy you a new shirt. You can keep it as a memory when our trip is over and you’ve forgotten all about me,” I joke.

He stays quiet, placing his hands over my hips to tug me a little closer, and I can feel my breath hitch. He takes off his sunglasses, and his eyes dart to my parted lips. His mood has softens as his gaze drills into mine. My mouth turns dry while I keep my head up, a strand of his dark hair flops in front of his head. When he opens his mouth, his voice is soft and deep, rumbling through my entire body.

“You’re hard to forget, babe.”

19

Who the fuck doesn’t catch?

She literally stepped back like someone threw a fireball at her with the calmness of a fucking jedi. Other than the screech that left her lips, she looked like she was cool as a frog while she followed the path of the football with her eyes as it hit me right in the chest. Remind me to never throw anything at her that can break.

We buy a black home-of-the-blues shirt that doesn’t look as lame as all the other touristy shit, then roam the streets like we’ve been doing all evening. We talk about the team. We talk about my growing up in the public eye on a bench watching the sunset. We laugh about the drunks sauntering on the sidewalk, and I joke about her love for fried chicken until I figure out the other thing she has an obsession with.

“Your favorites are fried chicken and ice cream, and you manage to look like that?” My eyes rake up and down her body with an appreciative smile.

“Like what, exactly?” she cries “What’s wrong with my body?”

“Abso-fucking-lutely nothing, baby,” I say, her cheeks turning a soft pink.

I pay for our ice cream, and we both take a seat on the sidewalk, watching the people pass by.

“You know. I didn’t take you for a dark chocolate kinda girl.”

She takes a lick of her cone, her tongue darting out in a sensual way as she quietly eyes me. “What did you take me for?”

“Something fruity. Fresh. Lemon, maybe. Raspberry. Or orange.”

Satisfaction is shown on her face, a small faint smile tugging on her plump lips. “Actually, there is this ice cream parlor in Jacksonville that sells Orange Chocolate ice cream. That’s my favorite.”

“Why doesn’t that surprise me?”

She gives me a coy smile, then my phone rings, and I take it out of my jeans to see who it is.

Mom.

Rae glances at the screen, giving me an encouraging look. “Just answer it. You know she won’t stop until you do anyway.”

She’s right. My mother has been calling me ten times a day ever since she saw that picture of Rae and I, and with my luck, she’ll up that to twenty if I’m not giving her something to keep her quiet for a few days. Or at least until I’m in New York.

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