"Strange but true, women make up a solid portion of sports fans. It does seem to contradict conventional wisdom," Stella replied. "I imagine that's where the question comes from. People rarely ask the dudes at my firm how they found their profession."
She had me there. I never would've asked a guy how he got involved with professional sports.
"Uh, yeah. You're right about that. Sorry," I said.
"No worries," she replied. "I like sports. College is great. I love college football something fierce. But it's the pro balls that pay the bills."
"Yeah," I said, nodding. "There's a lot of restrictions on collegiate players, right?"
She groaned. "Like you wouldn't believe," she said, launching into a detailed accounting of NCAA restrictions and how they made her life difficult. "But that's a technical conversation for a different day. Tell me something crazy. I'm sure you have some wicked good stories with everything you've seen, everywhere you've been."
She leaned forward to grab some fries. She went for the thin, crispy ones. The runts at the bottom of the basket. When she propped her feet up on my side of the booth, I reached for her bare legs, bringing them to my lap. It was what I'd been missing all this time—touching her.
I traced the socket of her ankle bone, dragging my fingers around and around as if it was something more private. She snagged a few more fries and sent me a curious glance. Brow wrinkled, eyes narrowed, lips pouty. That pout smacked me like a belly flop. Every inch of my skin smarted. I wanted to retreat, curl into myself but also stretch myself out and feel that throb everywhere. Oh, I was a goner. She could've asked me for the entirety of my liver and I would've dug it right out for her.
My thumb and forefinger circled her leg then moved up to the back of her knee. She squirmed, giggling as I touched her. She was ticklish. Very ticklish. That knowledge cracked open a cavern of dark ideas and I couldn't stop myself from saying, "You're my craziest story, Stel."
"Is that so?" she asked, a grin on her face that said,Yes, I am delightful.
"You know it," I replied. "Just like you know tomorrow morning's walk is going to be a slow one."
She arched an eyebrow but didn't drop the smile. "And why is that?"
"Because I'm gonna make sure your body knows who it belongs to, sweet thing."
It sounded fantastic in my head. It sounded exactly as possessive and craven as I felt. But oh fuck, the look on her face. It was a cross between complete shock and total horror.
What the fuck was I thinking?
I knew what I'd been thinking. It was Stella in my apartment. Stella in my bed. Stella's legs over my shoulders. Stella in the shower. Stella bent over an assortment of furniture and fixtures. Stella…just Stella.
With me. I wanted her. Simple as that. But broadcasting such a primitive thought was a bad move. This wasn't the straightaway to her heart.
Her lips parted as if she was about to say something, but she stopped herself, instead staring at the bottles of ketchup and malt vinegar between us. A line formed between her brows and she dragged her teeth over her lower lip. She didn't look at me.
Fuuuuuck. Fuck.
This—right here—this was why I didn't talk to women. I didn't know which chromosome carried the ability to speak to women I found attractive without gnawing on my feet but I was certain mine was deficient.
"Okay, so that was direct," Stella said, a laugh rolling through her words.
She shifted in her seat, pulling her feet from my lap, but I tightened my hold on her ankles, keeping her there. And with that, I'd managed the Creepy Guy Hat Trick. Announcing I'd semi-stalked her for months. Proposing marriage. Mouthing off in publicandholding on when she wanted me to let go. Well done.
Jesus. Who the fuck am I right now?
I held up my hands. She was allowed to say no. "I'm sorry."
"Don't you worry, dearie. If I can handle a D1 locker room after a bowl game, I can handle your pervy tendencies. Go ahead. That calf massage was better than anything I get at my pedicure place."
I reached for her. Didn't have to tell me twice. But I had to make this right. "Stella, I don't—"
"Let me guess. You don't say that to all the girls?" she asked.
Her eyes twinkled with her smile and I had no idea how to respond. Other girls? No, no other girls for me. I barely allowed myself to acknowledge the existence of women in the romantic sense. But here I was, throwing down my carnal desires and hoping they folded neatly into our conversation about alma maters and hometowns.
They did not.
"That wasn't what I meant," I said, the backs of my fingers running up her calf. Her skin was satin and I didn't want to let go. "Or…I didn't mean it like that."
