Page 8 of Crave Me

CHAPTER 3

Wren

“Get the hell out of here.”

Evan lowers his plastic menu, laughing softly at my remark. When he first walked into the dealership, I couldn’t figure this guy out. The sides of his cashmere coat parted when he moved, exposing what looks like a pricey suit. But while he’s clean shaven, he’s not exactly clean-cut.

His dark wavy hair curls around his ears, long enough that I can tell he’s overdue for a trip to the barber, but not so long that he appears disheveled. I take another long look at his straight nose, broad shoulders, and perfect posture. No, he’s not disheveled. He’s cute. Damn cute if you like pretty boys with deep green eyes with specks of gold, and a jawline angels must have chiseled from granite. Oh, and don’t get me started on that accent. He sounds like David Gandy, and dear God, looks a little like him, too.

“I’m serious,” he tells me, the way he looks at me taking him from damn cute to sexy. “I’ve never had a cheesesteak.”

I reach for the iPad tucked in the bag at my feet, not that I want to. But I need an excuse to break away from those gorgeous eyes and thick lashes that curl at the tips. “So when I asked you if you wanted to go out for steaks, you weren’t picturing enough flat screens to fill a cruise ship and Yuengling on tap.”

“What’s a Yuengling?” he asks.

I cringe, setting my iPad in front of me. “Oh, Evan, you have a lot to learn if you plan on staying in Philly for the long haul.”

He chuckles, his attention trailing to the foosball and pool tables on the other side of the room before drifting to the bar, where Sal’s Sports Bar sign lights up in red, almost directly where Sal himself stands. “I didn’t picture anything close to this,” he admits. “I imagined a traditional restaurant and found your desire to eat a steak this time of day odd.”

I point at him. “But you still came.”

“I did,” he agrees, tilting his head slightly. “And I’m glad.”

There he goes, looking at me that way again. Most guys leer at me. Having grown up in one of the worst parts of town, I’m used to it, not that I like it. But Evan’s not leering. Not even close. It’s more like he’s genuinely interested in what I have to say, even with all the ball-busting I’ve done.

“What are you thinking?” he asks. His voice is soft yet so deep and profoundly clear I have no trouble hearing it over the clamor of dishes being slammed down on the table behind us. “Wren?” he asks, his hypnotic baritone making it hard to concentrate on the contract agreement taking up my iPad screen. “I asked what you were thinking.”

That I should keep my eyes off you, I want to say. But that’s not what I say or do. “Just wondering why you’re so un-American,” I offer instead.

The two dimples on the right side of his cheek deepen when he grins. It should be fucking illegal to pull off this cute-sexy vibe he has going on. “Not having had a cheesesteak makes me un-American?” he asks.

“Yup,” I say lifting my glass of water. “And don’t tell me you’ve never been to a Phils game cause then I’ll have to run you out of town.” His smirk and another flash of those dimples gives him away. “Evan,” I say, throwing out a hand. “You’ve seriously never seen the Phils?”

“No.”

“The Eagles?” I ask.

“You don’t mean the band, do you?”

My shoulders slump. I’d like to say it’s a grossly exaggerated gesture, but this is Philadelphia and we’re talking about our two major sports teams.

“Please tell me you don’t root for another team,” I ask, like it pains me, because it physically does.

“Do you mean the Giants and Yankees—?”

I throw out my hands, shushing him when the table full of meatheads behind us grow abruptly silent. “Are you trying to get us in a fight?”

“Ah—”

“Damn it, Evan,” I say glancing over my shoulder. “I can’t kick ass in these shoes and I just paid off this suit. Don’t get us in a fight.”

My eyes narrow at the idiot behind us scowling at Evan. “You a Yankees fan, asshole?” he yells.

“He’s from England or some shit and doesn’t know better,” I fire back, cutting Evan off. “Turn around and mind your damn business.”

“Someone like him doesn’t belong in Sal’s,” he counters.

“And someone with an ass crack that matches the Liberty Bell shouldn’t be so judgmental,” I snap. “Pull your pants up and shut up.”

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