“You have a dilemma.”
He nodded. “I don’t want to be sleeping with a different girl every week or to get in the sort of shit that Rowan did last year. I’d really like to have a girlfriend, but every girl’s going to know I’m a footballer and I have money and I don’t want to be with someone and sleep with them, and – you get it, don’t you?”
I did.
“You need to get it out of the way.”
He nodded. “It would be nice.”
“It’s more than nice, Nick. It’s great.”
“You don’t need to rub it in.”
“Better than rubbing one out.”
We both started laughing, the tension he’d been holding disappearing.
“Are you still seeing that singer?” he asked, his long fingers toying with the mug.
I shook my head. “No. No, he was far too self-involved. So my dry spell’s about four weeks.”
He smiled and stared at the table.
“Nicky, it isn’t a bad thing. It’s actually kind of cute.” I put my hand on his. Touching him was usual. We hugged whenever we parted. There were always hands on arms or shoulders when we were together. That had been something Tom – the singer – hadn’t liked at all.
“Yeah, because every man wants to be called ‘cute’.” His fingers curled around mine.
“You are cute.”
“I’d rather be a sex god.”
“Wouldn’t every man?” I shook my head. “It’s a big deal in your head now, isn’t it?”
“Just a bit. I’ll probably be so nervous I won’t be able to get it up. Fuck, I’m telling you way too much.”
He was still holding my hand.
I studied his expression. Nervous, worried, honest. His face was beautiful, perfect skin and deep brown eyes that looked so soulful I could drown in them.
Ever since Nicky Pryce-Jones had walked into my café on the first day it opened, I’d thought him beautiful, inside as well as out. Unlike some of his teammates, who I now knew fairly well, he was a first-class gentleman. Polite, helpful, self-deprecating, teasing, fun, happy and so very grateful for his talent and what it had given his future and his family. I knew Rowan and Jesse and Jude well too, and they were all good guys, but Nicky had been something special since day one.
“Let me do you a favour.”
He frowned. “I don’t want you to fix me up with one of your friends for a one-night stand. Seriously, Kit, you can’t tell anyone about this. Ever.”
I squeezed his hand. “What if it was me.”
“If what was you?”
“What if I was your first?”
He blinked, looking at me like he was seeing an apparition.
“What if we slept together? Just one night – not necessarily just once in that night though – so no strings attached. The following day we’re back to as it was.” My inner voice was telling me all the ways this could go horribly wrong. My common sense was telling my inner voice to fuck the hell off.
I liked sex. Actually, I loved it. I’d had long relationships where the sex was both amazing and meh. I’d had a friends-with-benefits arrangement with a professor at my uni – he wasn’t in my department – and I’d had well-chosen and fairly satisfying one-night stands. I was careful and honest with myself. My heart had been broken a few times, and I’d broken a few more, all of which I considered character building. I was twenty-six, and lucky enough to have had very few regrets.
I didn’t think that my idea was going to be a regret.
