Page 8 of The Player's Obsession

“Dammit. This is a long freaking driveway,” I grumble, retracing my steps. It’s cold, and I’m not amused. I hope he’s in another room so I can swap the keys without having to see him.

I cautiously open the door and tiptoe through the mud room. As soon as I step into the kitchen, I know I’m not alone.

“Back so soon?” he gloats. He’s sitting on the countertop in anticipation of my return.

I walk to him to grab the keys he’s holding, but he balls them into his fist and raises his arm out of reach.

“Not so fast.”

I’m close enough to inhale his scent— a fusion of fresh linen mixed with a manly musk that’s utterly intoxicating.

“How about we trade your car keys for a date with me?”

“A date? I thought it was dinner.”

“Dinner. Date—what’s the difference? Let’s make it tomorrow night.”

I can’t help but challenge him. “Five minutes ago, it was dinner. Now it’s morphed into a date. There’s a big difference between the two.” I’m not letting him pull a bait-and-switch on me. He’s skipping several steps. It’s easy for people to bluff their way past me, but I’m calling him on his bullshit.

Maybe it’s because I know he’s a jock who’s used to having everything. I see them on the TV commercials after they win a huge game. I bet they’re gifted cars along with their multi-million-dollar endorsement deals. I doubt any woman turns them down for a date. Starting off with a dinner date is jumping way ahead, in my opinion. Typically, it’s a phone call to feel each other out before I agree to meet for coffee with a total stranger. There’s nothing great about a man spending too much money on an elaborate dinner when I know after ten minutes, he's not the man for me.

But we’ve met. I wish we hadn’t. It makes it harder to say no. He’s handsome and virile. I’m not used to someone with so much testosterone and confidence.

He gracefully dismounts off the counter, standing to his full height. He towers over me, and I have to look up at him to see his eyes. I’m so screwed. I’m close enough to notice a small scar on his chiseled chin. His proximity is making it difficult to breathe.

“Fine.” He flashes a triumphant smile. “Make it a date.”

“A date?” My voice quavers slightly. “I don’t date.”

“That’s obvious. Your body is built for fun, but your demeanor screams stay away. It’s like leaving a high-performance sports car in the garage and never taking it out for a spin. What’s your deal? You don’t impress me as a woman who cleans houses for a living.”

His words sting, and I reply sharply, “I don’t,” I snap. “I work in finance for a pharmaceutical company in the city.”

“Oh. Genzdime?”

“Yes. How did you know?”

“I’m into investments. I keep up with all the latest news concerning Fortune 500 companies. Genzdime is a local company, so, of course, I know all about it.”

He exudes smugness, a flippant air that’s infuriating yet… undeniably accurate.

He shrugs as if it’s something everyone should know. I take a step back.

“Fine.”

“Fine.” He pulls his phone out and hands it to me. “Your number, please.”

I begrudgingly take the phone, tap in my number, and add my name. I’m sure he has a ton of girl's numbers on his phone. I thought of putting in a random number, but I didn’t want Lucinda to get a complaint about me. Maybe he won’t remember my name after I leave.

I hand his phone back to him, and our fingertips cross. I am surprised by a spark of electricity. I’m sure it’s just static from the cold and touching his metal phone.

My phone dings. He smiles at me. The jerk texted me already.

“Now, you have mine. Please send me your address.”

“I’ll meet you there,” I reply.

“You agreed to a date. I pick up my dates. Call me old school.”

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