“I… What?”
“I don’t want you watching his clips.”
I open my mouth to respond. Although honestly, I don’t know what to say because this conversation is bizarre. But then suddenly, it makes sense.
Maybe he’s jealous.
Which is so freaking ridiculous that I could laugh again. But his thick frown and that clamped jaw and dark eyes with which he’s staring down at me, all irritated, makes me stop.
It makes me put my hands on the railing too, his fists touching mine. “Are you jealous?”
His brows snap even closer. “Are you going to stop watching his clips?”
“But he’s an excellent player.”
“Yeah, but he’s got nothing on me.”
Why is he so arrogant? Why do I like it?
And how did we go from talking about his smoking to this?
I arch my back and his eyes move. They stare at the pale patch of my belly and I wonder if he was one of the guys who wanted a piece of that, a piece of me.
I wonder if his jealousy extends from soccer to other things.
I know it’s stupid but I still wonder.
“Isn’t that a little arrogant?” I bite my lip.
He raises his eyes; his pupils look all burnt up and charred. “Not if it’s the truth.”
I feel something flutter in my bare stomach, something tugging and pulling just behind my naked navel.
Reaching up, I push back the messy strands of his hair because I know he doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like messy, wild things.
The Blond Arrow.
His jaw ticks at my action but I smile. “Okay, I won’t watch him. I’ll only watch you.”
As soon as I say it, he grabs my wrist and takes it off his forehead. I fist my fingers when I see something flash across his face, something unfathomable but dark.
“So tell me something,” he rasps, holding my wrist captive. “For a girl who works really hard for her money, a girl who had a job. Who’d take off her clothes to return the t-shirt she stole because she’s clearly not a thief, whydidyou steal that money? Where were you going that was so urgent that it couldn’t wait?”
My heart starts banging. “What? Why?”
“Was there a guy involved?”
“I’m sorry?”
Another flash of darkness passes through his features. “Was it a guy? Some loser like Beckham who you thought was so wonderful you had to run after him?”
The strands of his hair that I’d pushed away not five seconds ago have come out to play again. They graze over his lined forehead, making him look so unkempt and so wild.
So beautiful.
“Why?” I ask, twisting my hand in his grip but not to get free – I never wanna get free from his hold – but to feel his strength, his dominating fingers on me.
“I’m your friend, aren’t I? A friend should know these things. So tell me. Were you running away for a guy?”
