Page 46 of Hit Me With Your Best Shot

He is giving me a pointed look so intense, I squirm uncomfortably.

“Right,” I reply dryly. “Because it’s not like I have papers to grade or meetings to attend or, you know, a life outside of work.”

“You’ll make time,” he says confidently, like it’s a foregone conclusion.

“Wow.” I blink at him. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Thank you.” He flashes me a smile so bright it should be illegal and for a brief moment, I catch myself wondering if he’s had any teeth knocked out and if so, which ones.

“That wasn’t a compliment,” I snap, unconvincing even to my own ears. He is turning me into a liar!

“Sure it was,” he says easily. “You don’t want to admit it.”

I roll my eyes, but Gio only laughs, the sound warm and entirely too charming. Intoxicating, even.

“Okay,” I say, holding up a hand. “Let’s say,hypothetically,I agree to this madness. What exactly would this…arrangemententail?”

His grin widens, like he’s been waiting for me to ask. “You’d come to my games, obviously. Cheer for me. Maybe throw a few good-natured insults at the opposing team.”

“Duh.” I toss my hair. “What else?”

“Well.” He sits forward, getting excited. “We’d probably have to hang out a bit outside of games, you know, to keep up appearances. Make it believable for the media.”

“Believable?” I echo, raising an eyebrow. “You mean you’d want me to fake-date you?”

“Who said anything about fake?” he says, his grin turning mischievous.

My stomach flips, and I hate how easily he gets under my skin.

“Dude,” I start, my tone holding warning.

“Relax, relax.” He stands. I track him with my eyes as he rounds the desk, his presence so commanding that it feels like the entire room shrinks. “I’m not asking you to marry me. Just to think about it.”

I’m not asking you to marry me…

Marry me.

He stops right next to my chair, towering over me, and everylogical part of my brain is screaming at me to stand up, too. Or wheel my chair away. The massive lunk crouches so we’re eye level, his face impossibly close to mine.

My heart pounds so loudly I’m certain he can hear it.

“I-I don’t think this is appropriate.”

“What’s not appropriate?” he whispers, closing the space further by gripping my chair by the arms and pulling it forward.

Not aggressive.

Just deliberate.

Purposeful.

“I’m working. It’s not appropriate to…”

“To do what?” He leans forward, mouth brushing the side of my neck where my pulse beats erratically.

He kisses it again.

“That.”

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