Page 16 of Touchdown, Tennessee
“And you like keeping yours so perfect, and squeaky-clean.”
I set my jaw.
He was sitting back on the red leather booth, the glow of the pendant light above the table illuminating his cheekbones.
“How about I ask you some invasive fucking questions?” I said. “See how you like it?”
“Try your best, Peachel. Ask me.”
“What wasyourweek like?”
“I spent a lot of time in classes, in the library, or researching for the article I’m about to begin for the TNU Tempests.”
“Tell me something less obvious.”
He pulled his lower lip into his mouth, giving it a little bite.
I knew the alcohol was still coursing through my blood because I desperately wanted to lean over the table and take that lower lip between my teeth.
Bite it for myself.
Taste that black coffee on his tongue, make him hard, and stay in control by getting him towantme.
I can get under your skin, too, Gray Gilman.
“On Thursday, I didn’t have class until one in the afternoon,” Gray said. “So I woke up and helped my grandmother mow the lawn.”
“Ooh, so nice and kind,” I said in a teasing tone. “Helping your grandma.”
“I’m staying at her house until the end of senior year,” Gray continued. “My mom hasn’t been in my life for years, and my dad died in a motorcycle accident when I was five months old. But Grandma Bet is a fucking badass.”
“Cool grandma, huh?”
“She’s not abake-you-cookieskind of old woman. She swears at me, she’s opinionated, she’s standoffish. I fucking love her.”
“Your dad’s mom or your mom’s mom?”
“Dad’s side. I don’t talk to anyone else in my family,” Gray said, sitting up in the booth. “Look at you, trying to be a reporter.”
“Unlike you, I’m actually curious.”
“Andrew, the whole reason I’m a reporter in the first place isbecauseI’m curious. And because I’m good at it. Finish your food. Let’s go.”
I dropped a few twenties on the table a minute later, and Gray’s eyes landed on the bills as we stood up.
“You going to write about that in the article?” I asked him as we sauntered out past the throngs of high schoolers in every booth.
“I’m sure most of the article will be about how much syrup you put on your food, yes. Who puts syrup oneggs?”
“Lot of people do,” I said, pushing open the front door of the diner.
The night air was perfectly cool on my skin.
Thank fuck.
I was finally starting to feel normal tipsy again instead of stupid-wasted.
“Can’t say it’ll be the headline of the article, Peach.”
