“I didn’t think I was your type.” Filters. Lack of. Again.
He laughed. “I don’t think I have a type, but out of interest, what do you think it is?”
“Blonde. Big boobs. Knows how to put make-up on. Dresses in things other than sports kits.” I was doing some form of sign language as I was speaking, pointing to my hair, cupping my boobs which were flattened by a sports bra that was supportive rather than flattering, then pointed to my lips, and finally vaguely motioning at my body. A moronic version of hair, boobs, mouth and body instead of head, shoulders, knees and toes.
Rowan didn’t miss it. I saw the struggle as he tried not to laugh at me. “How did you work out what my type was?”
He wasn’t going to like this answer. “I searched you on the Internet.”
“Oh. What did you find?”
I was right. He didn’t like the answer. “Photos of you with Jade and women who looked like Jade.” I groaned. We’d had this conversation before.
He nodded. “Can I guess what your type is?”
I nodded, feeling myself wince.
“Skinny blokes who wear tight trousers and are still trying to get their degree.” He folded his arms.
“Why would you think that?”
“I looked on your social media and found a picture of your ex.”
“Stalker.” I felt giddy that he’d looked me up, too.
“So, I don’t think I’m your type. I’m not skinny, I’m never going to get a degree, and you think I fancy women who are the opposite of you.” His eyes didn’t leave mine.
My heart was banging to the beat of a very fast dance track, clearly having a little rave in there. “My ex was a dick.”
“He looked it.”
I nodded. Rowan wasn’t wrong. “I don’t have a type. He was my only serious boyfriend. We split two years ago.”
“How long were you together for?”
“Three years. He dumped me for his PhD tutor.”
Rowan gave a slow nod. “Unsurprising.”
“That he’d dump me?”
“No. That he’d get an inferiority complex about then. That’s when you signed your recent contract, right?”
He had done his research on me. “It was. He thought I should do my degree. In case the football career didn’t work out.”
“You’re right. He was a dick. But was he your type?”
I bit my bottom lip, because the next sentence out of my mouth was going to put me right out there for embarrassment.
“He isn’t anymore.” The words were rushed, blending into one.
Rowan’s smirk returned. He put his hand behind his ear. “I’m sorry, I didn’t quite catch that.”
“I’m not interested in someone like my ex anymore.” I slowed it down, saying each word slowly. “Did you understand that?”
There was a flash in his eyes that told me he’d understood every word and the meaning behind them.
“I think so. I don’t have a thing for blondes, by the way.”
