Page 36 of Scoring the Player
“Nah. What, you don’t find me attractive?”
The squelch of tires dragging through the slush fills the silence.
“Five years is a long time not to like someone,” I continue. “We should celebrate.”
“Why’s your voice so deep?”
I grin. “Blue, why don’t you date?”
“I just don’t.”
“Cool. Have a meal with me.”
“No.”
“You like seafood? I make a plate-licking paella.”
“Who’s Blue?”
“I’ll tell you over dinner.”
A slow exhale is chased by a flat, “I can’t.”
“You got my letter?”
My fingers tap against my thigh as I wait for his response.
“I’m not who you want.” He lets out an exasperated sigh. “I can’t be.”
“You’re telling me what I want?”
“I’m telling you I don’t have what you’re looking for.”
The thick conviction in his voice tells me he believes what he’s saying, so it doesn’t matter if I believe him.
“Okay.”
“O-okay?”
“Mm,” I reply. “If that’s what you want. Okay.”
“Can I at least pay you for it?”
“For what?”
“The cake.”
Unbelievable. “It was a gift.”
“You sure?”
“Good night, Blue.”
After a few seconds of silence, my hand lowers, and I end the call.
Well.
Damn.
