Page 34 of The Love Rematch
His lips twitched. “You’re terrible.”
“I think you like it.”
At that, he did smile. Because she was flirting. And now he knew it.
“I do.” He turned to look her in the eye. “I really, really do.”
Music blares, plucking Jake from his memories and dropping him right back into his own personal hell. Keith Holson comes over the jumbotron, filling SoFi Stadium with his wholesome, fatherly, prime-time voice. Emily emerges from the tunnel in a pleated miniskirt and glorified bra with pom-poms in each hand. The men hoot and holler. Keith cheers. The cameras eat up every second.
Meanwhile Jake is on the sideline, trying not to barf.
He wants to look away, but he can’t, and not just for his job. He watches, transfixed, as all twenty remaining men fawn over her. She lets herself be lifted onto one of their shoulders, then carried across the field by another. She applies sunscreen on bare backs, giggles like a lemming, and cheers with each successful pass. When the first touchdown is scored, the suitor runs over and spins her around. She kisses his cheek. With each successful point, the theatrics grow more and more absurd—tossing her over a shoulder, faking a photoshoot, staging a mock proposal—each guy vying for the funniest and most television-worthy celebration while Emily happily goes along for the ride.
It’s an out-of-body experience.
The girl he knew is at war with the woman she became, the first too preoccupied with her sketchbook and her dreams to notice all the attention she garnered, and the latter seemingly basking in it.
But this can’t be the real her.
He doesn’t—hewon’t—believe it.
Which is the only explanation for what happens two hours later, after the blue team wins and all ten of those suitors share a picnic with Emily on the field. Nina gestures toward him. Emily squares her shoulders and closes the distance between them. She needs to select three men for her mini-dates tomorrow—one for breakfast, one for lunch, and one for dinner—but this early in the show the lead only picks one herself and the producer in charge of the suitors picks the other two. Aka, him.
Strangers, Jake reminds himself as she approaches.Strangers. Strangers.
“Hey,” Emily says, overly cheery. The false tone makes his hackles rise. “Nina sent me—”
“To pick your dates. I know.” He crosses his arms and leans his shoulder against the wall, taking her in slowly—the skirt, the top, the spirit ribbons in her hair. A mic pack bulges from her waist, picking up their entire conversation. It’s all he can do to keep the sneer from his face. “Anyone you like?”
She grits her teeth, the happy demeanor cracking. “Just tell me your picks.”
“I haven’t decided yet. I need a little more information.”
“Like what?” Her nostrils flare.
He fights a grin. It’s always been fun to push her buttons. “Are you a big football fan, then?”
“Sure. Why not?”
“Interesting. What’s your favorite team?”
“Georgia.”
“Georgia?”
She puts her hands on her hips, not backing down. “That’s what I said.”
“I didn’t know they had a team.”
“We do.”
“What’s the name?”
“The, uh… The…” She scowls. Then her eyes pop wide as a look of triumph fills her entire face. It’s adorable and he fucking hates it. “Atlanta!” she exclaims. “The Atlanta Falcons! Ha!”
Touché.
“Did you cheer in high school?” he asks, pushing a little bit further, because his thoughts are still on that night and he can’t let go of her yet. “I didn’t peg you for the type.”
