Page 88 of Play Me
“I love that for me,” I say, not sure what I’m doing either, buthere we are.
Brooks leads me through the small groups of people to the street. He slides an arm around my waist, careful not to grip me too tightly or make too much contact, and I nod at him in appreciation.
“So what do you do for a living?” I ask.
He scoffs. “Not a fight fan, huh?”
“When you look at me, do you seefight fan? Do I give off that impression?”
“I’m not sure what impression you make. You’re quite an enigma.”
I snort-laugh. “An enigma? Really?”
“Yeah. If I had to put it into words, I’d say you’re a lady in the streets, although you’re currently wearing Gray’s high school rugby shirt, and possibly a freak in the sheets.”
He thinksIfitthatvibe?Whether he means that or not, I don’t know. His smirk makes me think he’s just screwing with me, but that doesn’t take away from the heat scorching my face as I try not to die in embarrassment.
“So you’re a fighter,” I say, firmly redirecting this conversation to more neutral territory. “My friend’s brother is a fighter.”
“Oh, really? What gym does he fight out of?”
I wince. “Boston?”
“That’s not a gym. It’s a city.”
“It’s the best I can do.”
Brooks opens his mouth, but before anything can come out, a set of large hands perch on his shoulders, and he’s yanked backward. He twists, raring back with a fist—ready to pound someone into the asphalt. Once he realizes it’s Gray, he drops his arm and bursts out laughing.
“You about met your maker, buddy,” Brooks says as Gray stands him upright. “And, no, you may not cut in.”
Gray wraps an arm around my waist and pulls me into his side. I gasp, going wide-eyed at the contact, but melting into him all the same.
Gray lifts a brow at Brooks. “It’s a good thing I didn’t fucking ask, then, isn’t it?”
My God.
Brooks smirks, walking backward and pointing at me. “You are very welcome. I take thank-you gifts in the form of gift cards and cash.”
“You are trouble!” I call after him, giggling.
Gray’s fingertips press into my side as he guides me in front of him. My skin sizzles beneath his touch, responding to him well before my brain can catch up. His gaze is rich and warm as he bites his lip to keep from smiling.
“Your friend is a character,” I say, trying to keep my words even as Gray connects his hands in the small of my back.
“Oh, he’s the main character in his own mind.” Gray grins. “What did that fool have to say, anyway?”
My palms skim his chest and over his shoulders, committing every layer of muscle to memory. “Nothing much. He was offended that I didn’t know who he was. Speaking of that, I saw you giving an autograph up there.”
“It’s no big deal.”
“I think his mom wanted a different kind of signature, if you know what I mean.”
He snorts. “That wasn’t his mom. His mom was my third-grade teacher. That woman runs the farmers’ market just outside of town.”
“She’s very … hands-on.”
“That’s what Brooks tells me,” Gray says.
