Page 5 of Texting, Trouble & Touchdowns
Tactical Play: Break Her with Charm
I should be used to rejection by now. It comes with the job.
Sometimes I hit the hole and get stuffed before making it past the line of scrimmage. Other times I break free, only to be dragged down before reaching the open field. It happens.
But never—not once—have I met someone this immune to me or my charm.
Until now, of course.
Olivia—whatever her last name is—hasn’t cracked so much as a smile, and I’m running out of options. Did her sister fall for it when I met her? I glance at her, and for the life of me, I can’t remember. I was too busy taking care of my number one girl, Luna Crawford. When that bundle of joy is within a five-mile radius, I don’t have eyes for anyone else.
No one should blame me. She’s the tiniest, most incredible creature, plus we’re both redheads. We redheads have to stick together.
I spare a glance at Aspen, who’s cute and . . . right. Remembering her. She’s the one with the big, scary boyfriend. I’m not a small guy, but her boyfriend isn’t just tall—he’s built like he was sent straight from the gods to make men like me question their choices. A guy like that could knock me out cold with one punch, and I’d probably thank him for it. So, yeah, I kept the Crawford charm locked away when I met her. Self-preservation and all that.
But the sister?
I’m trying to get her to at least smirk at me, perhaps acknowledge that I exist beyond the role of ‘man whose dog has hijacked my kitchen.’ Didn’t I just move her couch before she broke her door? And nothing. Nada. Not a crack in that composed little exterior of hers.
It’s ridiculous because I’ve got the whole package working for me today—shirtless, post-run, with a slight sheen of sweat that usually does the trick before I even open my mouth. And when I did open my mouth? It was charming. Teasing. Harmless.
And yet, here I am.
In her kitchen. Dog stolen. Pride wounded. Not leaving.
Sarah, my traitorous Vizsla, is sprawled across her tile floor, legs stretched out like she’s doing a centerfold shoot for Dogs Who Betray Their Owners Monthly. Smug as hell. In no time, she’s already made herself at home, belly-up, tail thumping against the cabinets.
And Olivia?
She holds her ground as if she’s not facing a man who bulldozes linebackers for a living.
“You do realize,” I say, leaning against the counter, arms crossed, “that you can’t actually keep my dog, right?”
Olivia mirrors my stance, crossing her arms, expression locked on maximum disinterest. “Says who?”
“Says the law.”
“Hmm,” she muses, tilting her head as if she’s actually giving it thought. “I’m pretty sure there’s a legal precedent for this. Finders’ keepers, perhaps. Squatter’s rights. She’s already made herself at home. Would be cruel to uproot her now.”
I grin, enjoying this more than I should.
“Damn. Didn’t realize we had a thief moving in next door.”
She sighs long and exaggeratedly as if this entire conversation is detracting from her busy day. “If I were stealing your dog, you’d never know. I’d be strategic about it. Subtle. One day, she just wouldn’t come home, and you’d assume she finally tired of your nonsense.”
Sarah’s tail thumps against the cabinets as if she agrees. Traitor. I swear if this dog could talk, she’d have a British or Hungarian accent and many opinions about my life choices. She’d probably say right now, “Be a dear and disappear, won’t you? I’ll summon you when I require your services again.” Okay, she might sound a bit more feminine, but she definitely has a thick accent and a big attitude.
This is absolutely not happening. Sarah won’t be taking advantage of the situation and the new hot neighbor . . . I’m still deciding how I’m going to handle her. “So let me get this straight. You thought about stealing my dog?”
“No,” she deadpans. “But now that you mention it, I could write a foolproof plan in about five minutes. I have a very strategic mind.”
I let out a slow whistle. “Now, that sounds like a challenge.”
“Not a challenge,” she clarifies, giving me a pointed look. “Just an observation.”
There’s something about the way she says it that makes me grin. Because damn, this is fun.
Usually, I can crack a woman’s resolve in record time. By now, she’d be giggling and playing with her hair, already considering whether she should offer me a drink or just get naked in her bedroom. It’s simple—a few well-placed smiles, a little teasing, and boom. I’m in. Not even in a cocky way. Just . . . I know my strengths.
