Page 24 of The Wrong Move

I barely hear his question when he asks, “Have you ever been to an NBA game?”

“No.”

“Would you like to come and watch me?”

I lift my head. While I watched Byron in high school, it was more about cheering for the pride of the school and my friend, not about the game. I’ve never been a fan of testosterone on the court. But the way Byron saidwatch mehas my heart beating faster than it should.Be open to new things…

“Watch you, yes. But I’m still not a fan of basketball.”

He laughs. “I suppose you’re into soccer now?”

“It’s called football in Europe.”

“But you’re LA born and bred. It’s soccer.”

I laugh and lower my head. “I didn’t get into that either. When my friends were watching the games, I painted.”

“I’ll get you in the corporate seats with my family.”

I roll onto my side. “I don’t need special treatment. I’ll sit anywhere. I’ll be there to watch you, not cheer on the team.”

His brow furrows. His eyes lock with mine, then lower. My skin heats as his gaze trails lower, then lower still. His hand lifts to rest on my hip. “You will not be sitting just anywhere,” he says in a husky voice.

“I don’t mind.” I roll onto my stomach, and his hand moves to my lower back. “We’re friends, Byron. I don’t want to ruin it before we get to know each other again. We have both… I was going to say changed, but I think matured is a better word. There are things we should talk about. I don’t want to be hurt again.”

“Have dinner with me.”

“No. Being charmed by you at dinner is not what I need.”

“What if I promise not to charm you?” he asks, his voice flat.

A laugh bursts from me. “You can’t promise me something that comes naturally to you.”

A slow grin spreads across his face. “Giana Monroe finds me charming.” He rolls onto his back with the smirk firmly in place.

“You’re back to being infuriating, which also comes naturally to you.”

“Charming,” he repeats, ignoring my words.

Ugh.

We shakethe sand from our towels.

“Is it too late to eat now?”

He glares at me. “You’re not getting out of dinner that easily.”

I tie my sarong around my hips, then shove everything in my bag.

“Walk with me,” he says.

“Now?”

“Yes, now.” He stands and waits for me to sling my bag over my shoulder. He takes my hand in his, and we walk down to the water and stroll along the wet sand.

I inhale a deep, cleansing breath.

“You love it here,” he says.

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