Page 38 of Just a Football Star

He takes in my face and my body. It’s quick and subtle, but I know what I see, and I don’t hate it.

“Should we turn on another song?” he asks.

“Only if it’s ‘Teardrops on My Guitar.’”

“I got you,” he says, grinning at me and walking backwards across the hardwood floor to the sound system.

It doesn’t take him long to pull it up, and before I know it, he’s back next to me, but this time, his arms are around my waist and we’re slow dancing. Barely. It’s so subtle I don’t know what to make of it. And I feel a fire deep down low. I’m drawn to him.

I rub my hands along his arms, and it only takes a second for me to realize that his injury on his forearms is under the pads of my fingertips. I wince and draw back, then grab his wrist with my fingers. “Let me see,” I say, my voice mottled, betraying me.

A hiss escapes me as I see the pink outline around the burns.

“It’s fine,” he insists in a low whisper, gently pulling his arms away from me and settling them around my back.

“No,” I say, drawing one arm back out again. I bring it close to my mouth and brush my lips against the injury. He shudders, so quietly that I barely register that it happens. I gently drop his arm and grab the other one, kissing it, too. When he closes his eyes, for just a moment, it’s my turn to shudder. I softly grasp the neckline of his shirt, just barely, craving his nearness.

He draws closer, asking for permission with his eyes.

I want to let him know it’s okay. I want to kiss him.

Chapter 20

Alec

There’s a hitch in her breath and then she pushes me away, her palms firmly on my chest. I take a step back. She’s blinking rapidly.

She traps her bottom lip with her teeth, then opens her mouth to drag in a deep breath. “The cameras,” she says simply, her gaze not able to meet my eyes.

Crap. Yes. The cameras. I hope Sebastian doesn’t see what happened. He’s my brother, not my dad. But he’s always been more of a father figure to me than my dad ever was, and I recoil at the thought of what Sebastian might say.

Which is stupid. It was only a dance. She only kissed my treadmill belt burns. It’s just that I don’t want it to be on camera for the world—or the Tate family—to see.

And we had a deal we wouldn’t touch back at the house, either.

I give a swift nod and back away, jamming the heels of my hands into my eyes. “Yeah, yeah. You’re right.”

She reaches out a palm. “It’s alright,” she reassures me. She releases a small chuckle. “I’d just rather do this in private.”

I nod again. “Me, too.” But when I think about a private place, my house is the only thing that comes to mind. And if we back out of the deal we made, if I start kissing Oakley at home, there may be no stopping it.

A smile plays about her lips. “I need to make some phone calls. But I’ll see you at the house later?”

“Definitely.” I’m trying to think of more to say, but nothing’s coming up.

She steps to move past me, but stops for a moment and lightly touches my arm. Her gaze is soft as silk. It’s quick and gentle, but it seems like it’s a promise of more to come. Her cherry scent lingers long after she leaves, and when I’m going through the motions of her list of exercises, I can’t seem to care much about them.

I finally give up and walk across the lobby to the eatery. The resort’s chef, Lionel, is leaving soon to start running the kitchen for our newest location in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina. He’s been training his replacement and, as a result, there’s a surplus of items in the kitchen lately. I’m more than happy to take them off their hands, and because I’m my brother’s brother, they don’t seem to mind too much.

“Can I actually have a couple more of those? They’re really good,” I say to Lionel’s replacement, Daria, as I point to some prosciutto and Swiss-cheese-filled croissants. I’ve loved cooking with Oakley this past week, but it might be nice to bring something home instead for tonight.

Daria waves me away. “Of course. I think they’re almost as good as Lionel’s. Still have a few more tweaks to make.” She smiles.

I start putting more in a paper sack when a hand snakes behind me and removes another one from the counter.

“Oliver?” I turn to face my older brother. His smile is deceptive, though, because I can tell he’s grabbing a second one behind my back.

“Why do you need so many?” he asks, his gaze darting to the bag.

---