Page 59 of Tight End

“He’s sleeping.” He says it so casually, taking a sip of my white wine. “Don’t worry, your sister is with him.”

I lean closer to him, pointing an index finger into his chest, ignoring the hard muscle underneath. “My sister?”

Ryan focuses on Michael, his long fingers strumming across the tabletop. “How do you know June?”

Fuck my life.

Michael clears his throat again—what’s he got in there? His fingers adjust the cuffs of his gray dress shirt. How did I not notice that earlier? Even his shirt is boring. Why did I agree to this? Oh yeah, to get this jerk out of my head. A lot of good that’s done. “We work together at the firm. I’m a junior partner.”

“And you don’t think it would be awkward to see our little June bug here at work every day once this goes into the shitter?” He stretches out, his legs bumping into mine, his arm curling around the back of my chair.

He’s really starting to piss me off. I don’t like the nicknames, I don’t like his attitude, and I sure as heck don’t like him crashing my date. My date I intend to finish.

“For one, don’t call me ‘June bug.’” I round on him, my eyes narrowing, and I try to ignore the people behind me who are leaning back, clearly trying to eavesdrop on our conversation. “Two, Michael is nice. He’s not like ... well, you.” I gesture toward him. “He’s not going to crash someone’s date?—”

“I thought it was just dinner with a friend.”

“Crash someone’s date because of—why are you here?”

“Was in the area.” His fingers graze my side, shooting electricity down my spine. Which I ignore. “I figured I would clear up some misconceptions about our relationship.” His eyes flit to me briefly before focusing back on Michael. “You said you’re a fan?”

Michael looks between us, his brows drawn together, no doubt as confused as I feel. His hands run down the front of his shirt, and he tugs at his collar, quickly nodding. “The Aces are my favorite team. I don’t miss a game.”

“Perfect. If I gave you season tickets, box seats, would you get the fuck out of here?”

My eyes widen. Michael’s jaw hits the floor. The lady sitting behind me gasps.

“Well, I ...” Michael stutters, sending me an apologetic look. “I’m sorry, June. It’s season tickets. You understand, right?”

Is he serious right now? Do I understand? Is he high? Is he seriously considering leaving me for football tickets? He is! Oh my God, he is. “Are you kidding me right now?”

His sleazy little hand slides across the table, covering mine, and all I feel is a steady buildup of anger. I force myself to take a haggard breath, pulling my hand out from under his before I pin it to the table with a knife. I hate the both of them right now.

Michael pulls a business card from his shirt pocket and hands it over to Ryan. “I’ll see you at the office on Monday,” he says to me. “You’re in good hands. He had almost eight hundred receiving yards last season.”

Wow. And no, that’s not in response to Ryan’s stats, whichfrankly mean nothing to me. He thinks I’m in good hands because this guy can run with a football? He can’t be serious.

With one last mumbled apology, Michael tosses a couple of hundred-dollar bills on the table and scurries out of the restaurant. The chatter around us seems to have died down, and people are going back to their meals, but I am seething. My blood is boiling in my veins, I’m seconds away from causing a scene, and I swear if Ryan thinks I’m going to sit here and have dinner with him after what he just did, he’s got another thing coming.

“That gumbo really is good.” Ryan removes his arm from the back of my chair, but instead of getting up and marching his ass home, he angles his entire body toward me. “You should take it with us.”

As if on cue, the waiter is back at the table, his hands trembling as he grips his notebook. “Mr. Devlin. Sir. Will you be dining with us? Can I get you something to eat? Drink?”

Ryan doesn’t take his eyes off mine. “No, thanks, but can you do me a favor and box her dinner up?”

“Absolutely. Right away, sir. And can I ... can I get your autograph?”

I cover my face with my hands and groan. This really can’t get any worse.

“How can you just sit there and act normal?” I grit out after the waiter gets his autograph and disappears with my food. “What’s wrong with you? Why are you here?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” He leans my way, his fingers dancing down the length of my spine, and I can’t help the shiver that works its way down my body. “I’m here to claim what’s mine.”

What’s his?What’s his?He’s delusional, he’s lost hismind. Never mind the delicious tingles working their way through me.

Or the way his eyes flare with heat.

“Excuse me?” I squeak.

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