Page 38 of Texting, Trouble & Touchdowns
Survival instincts? Malfunctioning.
I close my eyes, mentally preparing myself, and sure enough?—
“Well, well, well,” comes the smug, arrogant voice I dread on a molecular level. “Looks like someone’s finally getting that Crawford treatment.”
I turn slowly, gripping my completely useless clipboard with its even more pointless to-do list, solely to keep myself from hurling it at his absurdly good-looking face I have no business thinking about.
Lucian stands just inside the clinic, surveying the absolute disaster of a renovation with a low whistle.
“This is bad,” he muses, his eyes roaming over the exposed wiring, the torn-up floors, and the actual gaping hole in the wall. He drags his hand through his hair, visibly appalled by the dumpster fire currently unfolding. “Oh, Liv. How did you buy something in this condition?”
My grip tightens on the clipboard. “I didn’t?—”
Mike interrupts, nodding at Lucian with the kind of familiarity that makes my stomach dip. “We were just talking about permits. We’ll need a few favors at the town council, but nothing some Knights season tickets can’t grease up.”
Lucian smirks.
Smirks.
Like he’s been waiting for this moment.
“Oh?” He crosses his arms, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “They need season tickets?”
Mike nods, fully unaware of the impending murder about to happen. “Yeah. You know how it is—makes things move quicker.”
Mike interrupts, nodding at Lucian with the kind of familiarity that makes my stomach dip.
I glare at him, daring him to make this worse.
But this is Lucian fucking Crawford.
Of course, he makes it worse.
“You hear that, Liv?” he says, grinning. “You need me. Again.”
I inhale through my nose and exhale through my mouth, repeating the cycle to avoid committing a felony in front of witnesses.
Because unfortunately?
He’s right.
And also hot, which is just offensive at this point. I should not find this man attractive. He’s like a frenemy or . . . I don’t know. Someone I shouldn’t like or lust after. Nope, not at all.
But how can I not?
He’s wearing a plain white T-shirt, sleeves rolled up to reveal his ridiculously toned forearms. His sweatpants hang low on his hips, and his hair is just messy enough to appear effortless in a way that makes me want to punch him.
There is drywall dust on the floor. Actual construction debris floating in the air.
And yet?
He stands there with this kind of effortless perfection that belongs in glossy magazines and fantasy daydreams.
It’s infuriating.
“Why are you here?” I glare at him, wishing he would vanish, because this response toward him is not good. Not good at all.
Memo to me. Memo to me: I am not attracted to this . . . this . . . this.
