"Because it seemed too good to be true," I say instead.
Something in her eyes goes soft. "I wanted you to come because of the letters and how they made you feel, not because of who you thought wrote them."
That hits me somewhere deep inside. She wanted me to wantthis—the dynamic, the connection, the things she described in those cards—not just her pretty face.
"Well, I'm here," I say. "Because of both."
Her smile widens, and she gestures to the booth. “Then let's get to know one another better, shall we?”
“Let’s,” I reply. We slide in on opposite sides, as a waitress appears. I order a club sandwich with fries and Sloane gets the chicken fried steak with mashed potatoes…after finding out the gravy is homemade. And I find her unreasonable excitement over itadorable.
The conversation flows easier than I expect—she tells me about growing up in Atlanta, her single mom working two jobs, how soccer saved her from a lot of bad choices.
And I tell her about my dad, about losing him, about my job becoming everything because it was easier than dealing with the grief.
“I’m so sorry for your loss, Ike,” she says, sliding her hand over mine.
Normally, I’d pull it away, uncomfortable with sitting in the emotion. But with Sloane, it feels…good.
We talk about Riley, about the team, about the drama between her, Mackenzie, and Jenna and a group of boys on the volleyball team.
I’lll have to remember to tell Wade about this so we can keep tabs on them.
She makes me laugh, deeply and loudly, surprising myself.
But underneath the pleasant conversation, there's a current running between us. Every time our eyes meet, I swear it crackles. Every accidental touch, whether it be her leg under thetable or the brush of our arms when we both reach for our drinks has my heart rate spiking.
She reaches across to steal one of my fries, and before I can think, my hand wraps around her wrist.
Her breath hitches and her eyes go wide.
"You ask first, sweetheart," I say, in a rough whisper.
The flush that spreads across her cheeks is ravishing. She wets her lips, and when she speaks, her voice is low. "May I have a fry…Captain?"
The word goes straight to my cock. I hold her gaze, letting the tension stretch. Then I release her wrist with a slow stroke of my thumb across her pulse point. "You may."
She takes the fry and bites into it without breaking eye contact.
We both know what just happened, and it’s hard not to keep smiling.
For the rest of dinner, it seems every look is loaded. I notice the way she bites her lip when I drop my voice. She notices the way my eyes track to her mouth.
By the time our plates are cleared, I’m so on edge I debate running to the restroom to relieve the ache. But I manage to take a few breaths to steady myself.
When the check comes, she reaches for it.
I give her a look that makes her hand freeze mid-air. "I've got it."
"Ike—"
"Sloane." It’s just her name, but it's a warning.
She sits back, that pretty flush returning. "Yes, sir."
Christ. This woman is going to be the death of me.
I pay, leaving a generous tip, and walk her to her car with my hand hovering at the small of her back.
