“I’ve seen you limp off the field like a lump of pounded meat and give better game than that.”
Apparently not anymore.
“Penny’s grown up very nice, hasn’t she?” He’s way too smug.
I deliberately donotthink of the luminous quality of her skin, as though she held some inner light that the rest of us didn’t. She looked soft as a petal. I’d wanted to touch her, to see if the sweetheart shape of her face fit within the rough palm of my hand.
Said hand curls into a fist. There will be no touching of Penelope. While Penelope Morrow has always gotten along well with the rest of my family, I am the outlier. Anytime I’d walk into a room her buoyant mood would deflate like a lead balloon. For whatever reason, Pen does not like me. I’d say I rate at tolerable, but only because she has to.
“Hey, dickhead.” March’s voice penetrates the fog.
I manage a glare. “What?”
“I said Penny looks pretty good, doesn’t she?”
“She looks all right.”
“All right? That why you were gaping at her like someone dangled a Super Bowl ring in front of your face?”
“Those rings are ugly. Penelope is—”
“Ha!”
Bastard.
“We both saw her,” I say blandly. “I don’t need to state the obvious.”
March stares at me for a long moment. I stare back as if I’ve got all the time in the world.
Then he smiles. I know that fucking smile...
“That’s not the only way she’s grown up. Her ti—”
“Do not disrespect Penelope.”
“So you did notice!”
How could I not? Pen is stacked. Those curves, the way theydipped and swelled like a lazy river... Honestly, I’d tried not to stare—Mom had taught us better—but it had been touch and go. She’d gone from barely noticeable to more than a handful for me; and I can palm a football with ease. Matched with a tiny waist and those breasts? I’d nearly swallowed my tongue.
“It’s Penelope.” I force a shrug. “We don’t discuss things like that about her.”
“I don’t know...” He taps a beat on the armrest. “She had a huge crush on me in high school. Maybe it’s time to reassess.”
There’s a paperback resting on the coffee table in front of me. I mentally calculate how fast I can ping it at March’s forehead; accuracy won’t be a problem. It’s doing it before he ducks that’s the issue.
March glances at the book and then raises a brow at me. “I dare you.”
“Think I won’t?”
“I think you’ll miss.”
“I think my sixty-four-million-dollar arm says differently.”
March will be eligible for the draft next spring, and I know he’ll make as much, if not more. And I’ll be proud as shit of him. But until then, I’ll dig in the blade.
Predictably, his eyes narrow. “Sixty-three-point-three million.”
“Look who’s paying attention.”
