Page 16 of Someone to Have
Athletes aren’t my type, I mentally remind myself. Then I duck as my hormones reach out to bitch slap me.
I grew up listening to the stories and jokes my brother and his friends told about women, which weren’t affirming or respectful by a long shot. They were enough to turn me off from anyone even associated with sports. And even though she’s ten years older than me, I remember my sister getting her heart broken by the football captain in high school. Elise was one of the most popular girls in her class and an exceptional athlete in her own right. Plus, she’s tough as nails. If a boy was dumb enough to hurt Elise, I knew I didn’t stand a chance with that type.
Of course, Eric hasn’t asked me out. But here he is, standing at my door with the most delicious home-cooked meal I’ve seen since my mother died.
“Do you have a concussion?” he asks softly.
I blink up at him. “What?”
“I’m at your door with dinner and you’re staring at me like there aren’t a lot of circuits firing up there.” He indicates my head.
“You brought two plates of food,” I point out. “Should I be offended you assume I eat that much?”
“I couldn’t give a rat’s ass how much you eat.” He looks genuinely baffled, which almost makes me smile. “I brought one plate for you. The other’s for me.”
Before I can respond, he elbows past me into my apartment.
“Hey, I didn’t invite you in.”
“You’re concussed.”
“I’m not concussed.”
I let the door swing shut and follow him toward the small kitchen. “Where’s Rhett?”
“In his room with the door shut. I told him we’d eat after I showered. He managed to finish the meal, load his dishes in the dishwasher, and grab a cookie before I came out.”
I perk up. “There are cookies?”
He grins. “You want my cookies, sweetheart?”
I trip over a non-existent something on the floor and nearly yard-sale onto the hardwood floor. Somehow, Ericmanages to place the plates on the table, spin around, and catch me before I fall. Damn, that’s both annoying and hot. Annoyingly hot.
“I don’t wantyourcookies,” I tell him, extricating myself from his grasp. My body’s all like…girl, what’s the hurry? “But I wouldn’t say no toacookie.”
“You have to eat your vegetables first,” he teases.
“So now we’re eating together? You and me?” I don’t bother to mask my incredulous tone.
He looks more serious than I expect. “I have something I want to talk to you about.”
“That sounds serious.” I take a step away and try to ignore the fact that he smells even better freshly showered than he did Sunday night at the bar.
Grabbing two forks from a drawer and a wad of paper napkins, I move to take a seat at the table. I don’t like him, I remind myself. And I don’t want to spend time with him. I also don’t want to eat frozen pizza. Besides, there’s something about being alone on a Friday night that always feels particularly pathetic to me. I should be used to it, but still…
I take a bite of bread and suppress a groan. Damn, that’s good. “If you want Rhett to go to practice tomorrow, it’s fine. I know Toby wants him there.”
“How do you know?” He lowers that big, muscular, clean-as-a-whistle body into the chair across from me.
“He texted and told me I was being a jackass for making him volunteer.”
“Your brother called you a jackass?” One thick brow raises.
“No, but it was implied.”
He shakes his head. “That’s not what I want to talk to you about. Let’s eat first. I’m starving, and lasagna is better warm.”
“Most things are better warm,” I mutter, and his eyes flash. “Notthosekinds of things. Food things,” I clarify quickly, then add, “Not popsicles because they’ll melt.”
