“Sit.” His eyes open, jaw ticking, and his gaze narrows. “Now.”
Damn, that’s hot.I should push back and not let him anywhere near me when he’s bossy like this—a side of him that I’ve gotten occasional glimpses of before. But who am I to refuse kindness? People say you get out of the world what you put into it, and I’ve put a lot of nice vibes out there. If the universe is trying to repay me with Drake Bennett’s hands on my skin, I can’t really turn that down. That would be rude.
And such a missed opportunity.
“You really need to work on your bedside manner.” I make a face as I round the corner of the table. He, however, isn’t amused. “Seriously, relax. I have a friend who's a doctor. I’ll send her a picture of the cut when I get home.”
“Your friend is a doctor?” He steps back as I hop onto the table and pull my knee up to my chest. “A real one?”
“You say that like you’re surprised that a doctor would be friends with me.”
He arches a brow. “You didn’t answer my question, which makes me more doubtful.”
“Yes, she’s a doctor,” I say with mock exasperation. “In philosophy but she’s a doctor nonetheless.” I hike my pant leg up to expose the little cut on the side of my lower leg. It’s crimson and jagged—decidedly not pretty. But it doesn’t look infected. “See? It’s not bad.”
He takes the back of my leg with his large hand, bringing the small red line closer to him. His palm is warm, and his fingers press into my skin. His touch is tender, but his skin is rough, and if he notices my goose bumps, he doesn’t show it. It’s this juxtaposition mixed with his genuine concern that has me struggling not to pant.
For a girl who lives for physical touch? This is big,bigtrouble.
“I think it’s superficial,” he says, setting my leg down carefully. His eyes don’t meet mine. “And it doesn’t look angry.” He backs away as I tug my pant leg back down. “Do you dumpster dive often?”
“No. Not often. I don’t actually enjoy sorting through trash, but it’s a necessary part of the hobby sometimes.”
“And that hobby might be …”
I hop off the table. “I like to make art out of things people toss away, like cans, newspapers, and buttons. One of my favorite pieces is a fountain that I made from a urinal. It’s so fun.”
“That sounds …” He pauses. “Gross.”
I laugh at his reaction, and his chuckle joins mine. Together, it fills the recording booth with an easiness that’s hard to find with men. That’s one of the reasons Drake and I get along. Beyond his sittable face and fuckable body, he’s a pretty likable guy.
“What about you?” I ask, standing beside him. He’s a good six inches taller than me, and I have to look up to see him. “What are your hobbies outside of armchair quarterbacking sports teams?”
“I don’t armchair quarterback sports teams.”
“You decide whether it was a good call or a bad one after the fact. That’s the literal definition of armchair quarterback.”
He shakes his head, but his half smile erases the sarcasm. “I analyze players and games, discuss sports news and culture.” He taps the tip of my nose. “If you listened to an episode, you’d know that.”
“How do you know that I haven’t listened to an episode?”
He shrugs. “Just a hunch.”
“I know you think I’m just a pretty face, but I played volleyball in middle school. I know a thing or two about sports.”
His chuckle rumbles through me. “I didn’t realize I was standing next to one of my peers.”
“See?” I grin. “You don’t know me as well as you think you do.”
I return to the other side of the table and retrieve my purse, phone, and keys. Drake checks his phone, chuckling at something on the screen. I’m curious about what he’s seeing and who sent it. I really don’t know much about him.Who are his friends? Where does he live? What does he do for fun?
Is he a good fuck?
“So what are you doing this weekend?” he asks as I hoist my tote onto my shoulder. “Any big plans?”
“I’m meeting my friends for dinner tonight. And I’m supposed to have a date tomorrow night, but we’ll see.”
“Hopefully, you’ve met your dream-crushing quota for the week, and he’ll be spared from your wrath.”
