He’s apparently been waiting for the question. He has his phone out, one arm around me, posing for a selfie before I catch on to what he’s doing. And he has his phone pocketed again and is nudging me down the street before I can eke out a demand to see the photo.
“They’ll meet us there. You usually late?”
I’m not flustered because he touched me again. I’m startled that I put my guard down so soon into our “date.” That’s my story, andI’m sticking to it. “I’m punctual ninety-eight percent of the time, and I have a very good reason to not be the other two percent. Does a lack of punctuality bother you?”
“Unnecessary rules bother me. What constitutes a good enough reason to be late?”
“People.”
“And here I thought you were going to say a bad hair day.”
“Your face would know those…”
He smirks.
All he needs is a trench coat and a top hat and he truly could be a cartoon villain. Though cartoon villains aren’t usually so thick in the neck and arms. Or straining their blackCopper Valley PoundersT-shirts. Or walking around in forty-degree weather in only T-shirts and tattoos to keep their upper bodies warm.
He’s in jeans tonight. I pause and slowly peer behind him.
No letters on his ass.
He dressed up for this.
He flexes one ass cheek, then the other.
Yep.
Still Fletcher.
I start walking again. “Are you contractually obligated to always wear Pounders merch? Or did you use your mustache’s profits to invest in the team?”
Every time I poke at his mustache, he smirks or grins or preens. “My mustache isn’t the only body part that’s made me more money than my rugby salary.”
“Ew.”
He swipes a hand over the ’stache, and this time, I’m pretty sure it’s because my reaction made him smile so big he might’ve flashed all of his pearly whites.
“First my ass, now my dick. I see where your mind is, Goldie Collins.”
“I’ve known rugby players Silas’s entire life. I know whereallof your minds always are, even when I don’t want to.”
“You still checked out my ass. Not that I mind. I’m game for you liking my ass.”
“I was making sure you didn’t have any messages written on it tonight.”
He slides a look my way as we walk. It’s only about three blocks. Not far. And we pass my favorite bookstore on the way. Penny For Your Thoughts is closed for the night, but I hear guitar sounds coming from inside as we walk past the window display of romance novels and travel books.
The owners must be hanging out inside.
“Do you always look so happy when you’re rapid-firing zingers at your dates?” Fletcher asks.
“Do you always look so happy to be the recipient of the world’s best zingers?” I counter.
“Are you getting them all out now before we have to behave ourselves in class?”
“Why would we behave in class?”
“Your brother’s going to be there.”
