Page 50 of Love on the Waiver Wire

When the first verse is up, I hand the guitar back to him.

“How are you good at everything?” he asks, and my cheeks heat up.

“I can assure you I’m not,” I tell him with a smile. “But I was always an artsy kid. I went to college for art at Towson. Took some music classes. I had already learned guitar and piano as a kid.”

“I think you’re impressive,” he says, strumming a little tune that’s definitely not Wonderwall. Or anything, for that matter.

“And I think you’re impressive. In fact, the entire country thinks you’re impressive,” I fire back.

“There’s certainly some haters,” he says, watching his fingers as he fools around with the strings.

“There’s always going to be haters. But we’re passionate people, and passionate people get really good at what they love to do. I love art and music. You love football and fitness.”

“I like other things too,” he nods.

“Oh? Do tell.”

His cheeks flush. “Well, I love fitness and football of course, but I have other hobbies I’m passionate about.”

He stops, and I raise an eyebrow when he looks at me, encouraging him to go on.

“I love cooking. I’ll cook at home any day rather than eat out. I actually hate my diet during the season because it’s often too simple for most meals. I can still cook a healthy meal, but that’s not what we’re told to eat a lot of the time.”

“I’m sorry,”

He shrugs. “I still do it of course. But yeah. I love cooking. I’ve taken a bunch of classes.”

“Maybe you’ll have to cook for me.” I feel bold, but the words are out of my mouth before I can consider them. His dark eyes snap to mine, a boyish grin spreading across his face.

“Peaches, are you asking me out?”

“I’m saying I want to see what else those hands do,” I shoot back. It’s only when I see his neck grow red that I realize the other meaning behind that.

“I meant like, cooking. Not, not that.”

He nods, clearly not believing me. “Yeah, I’m sure that’s not what you meant.”

“It isn’t!”

“Whatever.”

Owen starts nodding as I did, and when he gets a chord right, he looks at me expectantly. I nod, encouraging him to go on.

After about thirty minutes, I think he’s got it.

I clap my hands together, placing them around my knee. “Okay now, here’s where the punishment comes in,”

His head whips up as he stares at me.

“You’re going to film yourself playing Wonderwall and you’re going to post it to the internet.”

“Isla that’s evil.”

“It’s funny as hell.”

He scowls at me, the muscle in his bicep bulging as he shifts the guitar. “I’m not even playing it well!”

“Owen, you’re Owen Crosby. You post that to the internet you’re going to get more DMs than you know what to do with from a million different women.”

---