Did I mention he’s a charmer?
“That’s a funny way of saying I’d rather you not join us for dinner,” Levi says. “I have plans, thank you, but no.”
“What plans?” I demand.
Girlfriend? Is he seeing someone? Levi is notoriously private, and it drives me and Zora batty. My mother too. But we understand him notwanting Monica Nelson in his business. That’s like calling up the IRS, inviting them over for dinner, and serving up your overdue tax returns for an entrée. Asking for trouble.
But me and Zora? We’re used to keeping each other’s secrets from our parents.
“Plans that are mine and not yours.” He arches that damn eyebrow and nods at Jordan. “How’s your groin injury?”
Unlike when the rest of us ask, that initial flash of irritation that Jordan probably believes he conceals so well doesn’t make an appearance. Most likely because there’s no sympathy in Levi’s voice, no hint of softness, just a steady matter-of-factness. And it’s not because he doesn’t care or isn’t capable of compassion. No, he wouldn’t know how to play games if they came to him packaged with directions. If he honestly didn’t care, he wouldn’t ask. But Levi’s not asking about Jordan’s emotional well-being; he’s inquiring about his physical state, about the facts. And that clearly sets Jordan at ease.
“It’s coming along. Just got back from PT. The swelling and bruising have gone down, and the pain is easing up. If I keep up the stretching, icing, heating, and elevation at home, then hopefully I’ll be back on the court in about three weeks.”
“That’s good news. But I’m guessing the doctors told you four weeks if you’re saying three.” When Jordan’s chin kicks back in surprise, Levi snorts. “Cyrus texted me about guys’ night Thursday. I’ll see you then.”
With that, he leaves, quietly shutting the door behind him.
“I’m still confused on the story of how you three became such good buddies,” I mumble, staring at my closed door.
“Some things weren’t meant for you to understand.” He crosses the room and lowers into the chair in front of my desk. “They’re man things.”
“Oh. Man things. So how to hit everywhere but the toilet bowl while peeing, how to piss every woman in creation off by mansplaining, and the finer points of farting in public without giving one singlesolitary fuck. Which”—I hold up a finger as I stand and round my desk—“I personally think that last one is an underappreciated gift.” I lean back against the desk in front of him, crossing my arms and ankles.
And pretend my breath doesn’t catch when his gaze momentarily dips to my thighs.
He’s a man. And an athlete. It’s in his DNA and job description to check out the opposite sex. Case in point, the woman from the other night at Linc’s party—the boob flasher. I’m sure that’s par for the course for him. And of course,logically, I know this, but that was the first time I had a front-row, splash-zone seat to it.
I hadn’t liked it.
And by “I hadn’t liked it,” I mean, it’d taken every bit of my flawed self-control and a rousing pep talk of “chicks before dicks” to keep me from flying over to them and punching ol’ girl in her tit.
Anger had flooded me like a biblical punishment, and it’d scared me. I’d never experienced that ... primal urge to claim someone like a feral alley cat. And wasn’t that just demoralizing? Only my shock, my horror, and the crystal clear image of Jordan’s humiliating reaction had kept me rooted, locked in place. Other than that night when we’d both lost our minds and clothes, he’d never given me the slightest hint that he viewed me as anything other than a friend. Cyrus with a womb. And that’s how I wanted it.
Want it.
Yes, want it.
Titty-punching aside.
“Exactly, Marilyn.” He nods, holding up his hands. “See? This is why we’re friends. You get it without me having to mansplain.”
“Whatever.” Uncrossing my ankles, I straighten and push off the desk, then retrace my steps to reclaim my office chair. And ignore the spasm in my belly over that “friends.” Because that’s what we are. All we can be because I demanded it. “Now, what brings you by? And don’t tell me you were in the neighborhood because Castle Pines is nowherenear here,” I remind him. While a good many of his teammates live in exclusive Cherry Creek, he has a home in the Castle Pines suburb. It’s a wealthy community but has a more rural feel with its beautiful scenery, thick trees, and several parks. It’s a good thirty-minute drive from Five Points, where our BURNED offices are located. “And my memory might not be as good as it used to be at my doddering twenty-seven years old, but I would’ve remembered dinner plans. Which we didn’t have. So why are you really here?”
If I’m not mistaken, his full lips flatten for a second, and his eyes darken.
But yes, Imustbe mistaken.
Because in the next instant, the corners of that mouth curl up in a smile, and his eyes reflect nothing back but a clear sky blue.
Still ...
Why can’t I shake the sense that I’m missing something?
Or ... that he’s hiding something?
NowthatI shrug off as bullshit. Jordan might be a lot of things—a charming, lovable manwhore athlete—but he’s not a liar.
