Page 9 of Crave Me

His face turns as red as the lipstick I’m wearing when his friends bust out laughing. That doesn’t stop him from tugging up his waistband and returning to his food, grumbling something he’s damn lucky I don’t hear. It’s only when I’m sure he’s not going to do anything that I turn back to Evan, leaning in close. “We can’t be friends,” I tell him truthfully.

He shifts his stunned expression from the men back to me. “Why?”

“You’re New York. I’m Philly. It’s a religious thing.”

Fuckin’ A. Here comes that grin again. “I’m not a fan of any New York team,” he assures me. He pauses and adds, “I’m not a fan of sports at all.”

I blink a few times. “You don’t watch sports?” He shakes his head. “I suppose the races are out of the question.”

“Horse races?”

Jesus God, help me. “NASCAR,” I clarify. I should revoke his man card and rip it to tiny pieces in front of him. But he’s hot and there’s too much alpha lingering beneath that suit. It’s subtle, but I can see and sense it under all those straight-laced layers.

I lean in a little closer, skimming my gaze over his polished exterior, but it’s what I catch beyond the expensive suit and a blue silk tie that must have cost more than my shoes, that give me a peek of who he really is. There’s an allure there, a playfulness buried deep beneath all that controlled discipline, it’s repressed and sealed tight, but I see it, and maybe taste it, too.

A beast beneath the business. That’s who he is. I lick my lips, knowing I shouldn’t go there and wishing I didn’t want to. Christ, I just met the guy.

Evan hones in on my mouth as I slide my tongue back into my mouth to keep it from lolling. I ignore it, or at least, try. “All right,” I tell him. “I suppose no team is better than rooting for all the wrong ones.” I sigh. “Anything else I should know before I decide to sell you my vehicle?”

“Before you decide?” he asks, amused.

“It may not look it, but I’ve got morals,” I assure him.

“In that case, I suppose you should know I’ve spent the better part of my life in London.”

“Just London?” I ask. I picked up on the British for sure, but there’s something else there.

He laughs. “I was born here, Villanova to be exact. But I attended boarding schools in Switzerland and Scotland before ultimately graduating in England.”

I frown, sure I misheard him. “You went to boarding school all over Europe?”

Traces of sadness reflect along his irises, but as quickly as the emotion appears, it fades away. “That’s right.”

“People still do that?”

“Study abroad?” he questions.

I meant send their kids so far away. And while that’s not what I say, the underlying suggestion is there regardless of how I respond. “There are a lot of great schools here in the U.S.” I wink, to lighten the mood. “But then again, you are un-American.”

He returns my smile though it lacks the luster that was there before. I was right. There’s a lot beneath those layers . . . like maybe his share of heartbreak.

“Tell me something about yourself,” he says.

“What you see is what you get,” I answer. “I like hot cars, I sell them, love sports and good food.”

“Tell me something else.”

“Why?” I ask, ignoring the fact that I already know.

He folds his arms. “I want to know more about you.”

Yeah. That was it. My finger slides along my iPad screen. He seems like a nice guy and while I don’t think it’d hurt to tell him a little more about me, I thought the same damn thing about Bryant. So I give him what I think is harmless enough. “I attended Saint Therese Catholic School for thirteen years where I learned valuable life lessons like the Apostle’s Creed, how to hotwire a car from Valentina Sigliani, and that if I didn’t go to confession I was going to hell.”

“You attend confession?”

“No, which is why I’m going to hell.”

Laughs aren’t supposed to be erotic or even slightly stimulating. But on Evan, God damn it, everything is. Not a good thing seeing as trash-talking and swearing aside, I pride myself on being professional. “So have you ever been to a ball game?” I ask as his humor dwindles. “Any ball game?” He shakes his head, his stare never leaving mine. “What the hell am I going to do with you?”

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