‘What?’
A slow grin spread across his face. He leaned closer, the tips of his fingers tilting my chin up.
‘I earn enough money… so I don’t have to say please. Now get in the fucking car.’
His hand dropped, and he stepped away from me, rounding the car to the driver’s side. My cheeks heated, only now it was due to my anger at how easily I fell for his smooth routine.
Stupid footballer and his flirting superpower.
‘Arsehole.’ I grumbled to myself, sliding into his very nice and no doubt veryexpensivecar.
The same shit-eating grin stained Oliver’s face as I slammed the car door harder than necessary.
‘Now, now, it’s not polite to call your employer names.’
My mouth gaped. ‘You arenotmy employer. You’re not paying me.’
The advance I would receive from whichever publishing house picked up the book would take significant stress off my shoulders.
‘Technically.’ Oliver put the car into gear and pulled out of the parking spot. His arm flexed as he gripped the wheel with one hand and the gear stick with the other. I drew my eyes away from the pornographic sight. ‘However, you do work for me.’
I scoffed. ‘How’d you figure that?’
He shot me a cocky grin. ‘You don’t have a book without me. You don’t have anything without me, so I’d say that counts as me holding more power than you do. So…calling me an arsehole might not be in your best interest.’
‘Fine.’ I sighed, letting him think for a moment that I was conceding.
‘Fine?’ He peered at me out of the corner of his eye, dubious at my sudden acquiescence.
‘Of course.’ I lifted my shoulders in a show of submission. ‘I understand being called an arsehole isn’t everyone’s cup of tea.’ His eyebrows shot to his forehead. Before he could open his mouth with another condescending remark, I stared out of the car window and casually added, ‘So, take your pick; we have jerk, knob, wanker, jackass, dipstick-’
‘Dipstick?’ he asked incredulously.
I tilted my head towards him, forcing myself to be serious. ‘Is that your choice? Okay… It’s a little old school, but I can make it work.’
He was silent for so long that, for a brief moment, I questioned whether I’d taken it too far. This was Oliver Blake; he had a career more successful than mine would ever be, and his last contract to the club was for fifteen million pounds. If that didn’t put me at the bottom of this power dynamic, his arrogance and entitlement certainly might.
Oliver bit down on his lower lip and then burst out laughing. The sound echoed around the car.
My lips twitched as I watched his face transform, all his surly, broody features wiped away. A slight indentation in his cheek drew my gaze. He had dimples.
Oliver-motherfucking-Blake, had dimples. Life really was unfair.
Why this simple facial feature was enough to ease most of my previous anger, I decided not to contemplate for too long.
‘I can’t decide if you’re laughing with me or at me. You know what, never mind, I don’t want to know.’ I settled into the comfy passenger seat whilst Oliver’s laugh faded into a soft chuckle.
A pleasant sensation spread across my chest at hearing him laugh. Like when you take that first sip of hot chocolate of the season. It trickles down your throat, warming your stomach and comforting you.
The car slowed to a crawl. I jerked upright at seeing the front of my building looming.
‘How did you know where I lived?’ I turned an accusatory gaze on him.
Oliver turned the car off as he parked right outside the front steps. Turning his upper body in his seat, he looked every bit as intimidating as I’d seen him be all evening. The only difference was that his eyes still held a glimmer of humour.
‘My brother dropped you home after the night in the pub.’
His words eased the tension in my shoulders and I slumped back in the seat. The seatbelt started digging into my lower stomach, causing a pinch of pain. That sent a zip of awareness straight through my head. I was compressed into the seat—sports cars weren’t the most size friendly. My belly rolls were standing proudly on display, and as I glanced awkwardly down at myself, I could have sworn they’d added another one to the mix. My thighs were spilling across the leather, and I didn’t even want to know his view of my double chins. This man was hotter than Hades. Every stereotypical idiom about beautiful men applied to Oliver Blake. He obviously worked hard to be in shape. Even without playing football, I could hardly see him pulling a pint of ice cream out of the freezer at the end of a hard day. He’d probably drink herbal tea and bench press two hundred pounds to relieve stress.
