Page 7 of The Player's Obsession

Hm. She’s not impressed.

“Look. I’m trying to be nice here.”

“I’m nice.” She grabs her coat and slips it over her body.

“Two-word answers are not what I call friendly.”

“It is to me. I think you are used to women complying with your every wish,” she states before she sails past me into the kitchen.

I chuckle. She’s correct in her assumption. But that’s neither here nor there.

She moves to the kitchen counter to grab her keys and retrieve her caddy filled with supplies on the floor.

I can’t let her leave. I just met her, and I want to know more about her.

“I want to take you out to dinner.”

“Um. Maybe you don’t like to hear the word N-O.”

She’s right, but I don’t have to agree. I’m sure she anticipated me being a stereotypical jock. Even I love to watch Travis Kelce play ball, and I’d be remiss if I didn’t acknowledge that he showed quite an attitude when I watched his brief stint on a dating show years ago.

“Fine. You pick the place.” I’m scrambling for ideas.

“Why?” She pauses at the door.

“Because I want to apologize for laughing when you fell.” Boy, she’s tough. Who turns down a free four-course dinner?

“I’m good,” she says, lifting her chin in defiance. “But thanks anyway.” And with that, she turns and walks out the door.

I’m speechless. Shit. Would it be too much if I called Lucinda for her number? Technically, she’s not allowed to give out that information. I’m still reeling from the rejection when I open the refrigerator. Taking inventory of the Greek yogurt, kale, and hard-boiled eggs, it’s obvious I haven’t shopped since I flew home from Christmas dinner at my parent's house in Boston.

I turn to the counter to get my keys, thinking about what I want for dinner, and it takes a second for me to realize—they aren’t my keys. The keychain is a winged metal logo with the word Mini in the middle.

My lips curl into a knowing smile.

All I have to do is wait.

She’ll be back in a minute.

CHAPTER4

Penelope

Ipush the button to unlock the doors on the way to my car. Nothing happens.

Shit.

What is up with my car? Did the lock freeze? I click the key fob again and the door is still locked. What the hell is going on? I slow my thoughts down. That man made me crazy with his insistence on a date. The nerve of him. Either he thinks I’m hard up for a date, or he has the ego the size of the moon.

I cringe when I realize both of my thoughts are probably true. I’m hard up for a date. The list of eligible bachelors is minimal. I think some of the men don’t even have active profiles. Not that I have time for it. I need to date, but I hate repeating the same questions over and over again. Before I moved here, I just wanted to say, “Read my mind,” to see if there would be a second date.

Maybe I’m going about it wrong. Maybe, people should start at the wedding, that way, there will be a second date if for no other reason than the fact both the bride and groom are trapped. Then, you get to know each other. Maybe there is more philosophy and statistics behind arranged marriages.

With trepidation, I open my hand and stand frozen, staring down at the Megalodon key chain in my palm. Dammit. I grabbed his keys, not mine. How could I have been so stupid? Now I have to go back and face him.

Again.

I set my caddy on the ground, which is covered with a fresh dusting of powder. I storm up the long driveway, each foot pounding the pavers.

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