Page 93 of Playbook
“They call it that?” Brogan’s brows disappear under the floppy piece of hair on his forehead. “That’s bullshit.”
“Originally, I was going to follow in my dad’s footsteps and be a lawyer, like Sierra.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“I took an art class my sophomore year and fell in love with it. They weren’t happy but when I got the job at Channel 3 they were excited that I had a stable, steady paycheck.” I take a breath. “Eventually, I want to be my own boss, set my own hours, and pick the projects I work on. Every time I bring it up, they freak out. Sierra says my dad worries that I’m not going to be able to support myself, but I’ve never once asked them to help me, and the illustration jobs, when I book them, pay better than my regular job at the news station.”
I hadn’t meant to unload on him or get fired up about it. I try my best not to think about it anymore than I have to. It’s not like I’m going to change it. Dad’s made his stance very clear. Supporting myself by being an artist isn’t a real job to him.
“I’m sorry.” Brogan’s fingers trail over my head into my hair.
“I’ve accepted that they’re never going to be on board with it.” I shrug.
“Is that why you haven’t quit to pursue it full time?”
I start to say no but have to admit that there is some small part of me that might be holding back for that very reason. “Partly. But also…what if it doesn’t work out?” There are a lot of people trying to make a full-time job out of the thing they love and not succeeding.
“What if it does?”
“You are a hopeless optimist.” I lean forward and kiss him.
“Good people deserve good things. Plus, you’re really fucking talented.”
“You’ve only seen like two things I’ve done.”
“So show me more.”
“No.” I laugh as I roll away from him.
He moves on top of me, holding himself up so he isn’t crushing me, but instead he’s like a weighted blanket that I want to stay under for a very long time. “Why not?”
“I don’t know.” I continue laughing at the earnest look in his eye.
“You’re really good. I’m not just saying that to get in your pants.” He waggles his brows.
“No?” I run my fingers up and down his back.
“No,” he confirms. “But if it helps keep you naked, I will spend all night telling you how fucking incredible I think you are.”
“Wow. That’s really convincing.” My body shakes with more laughter.
“You’re smart.” He kisses my lips, then scoots lower. “And kind.” His mouth brushes over my neck. “And sexy.” He licks one nipple. “And you are good at what you do. The best illustrator I know.” He kisses my stomach just below my belly button, then looks up at me.
“I’m the only illustrator you know.”
“Doesn’t make you any less.”
My heart squeezes at his words. So sincere, even if it’s an outrageous claim.
“You’re not so bad yourself,” I say. Those aren’t the right words for what he is. He’s kind and smart and talented—all those things he said about me, but he’s also just good. He wants the best for everyone around him, but I never hear him talk about what he wants outside of football.
“Not bad, huh?” He moves lower, using his broad shoulders to widen my legs so I’m open to him. Heat pools in my stomach again as he runs one long finger down my slit.
I’m still so sensitive and his light touch has me pressing against him for more.
“Are you sure you’re not misremembering?” he asks, continuing to tease me with just the drag of his calloused fingers against my swollen flesh. “I think your exact words were ‘it feels too good.’”
“I think your memory is bad.” I tease him back with my words. We’re playing a game right now, and admitting just how much I like him feels like losing.
