“I’m good too, sis,” Lindy says through clenched teeth. She knows exactly what I’m doing.
I stand, needing a minute away from waggly-eyed Reggie.
“I’ll take a beer on tap if you’re buying,” Reggie says.
I clamp my jaw closed. Nothing kind is coming to mind, so I just won’t speak. I won’t be buying Reggie a beer either.
I walk up to the bar, peeking back at our table as I go. Lindy is looking at Brent, Brent is looking at Lindy, and Reggie is holding his hands out, studying them as if he’s measuring something.
I step up to the bar in the single space between two men. “Can I get two Diet Cokes?” I say to the bartender. I’m pretty sure most people just wait at their table for their waiter to order a soda. But there are people here, sitting and drinking. So, why not me?
The bartender nods my way, not questioning my motives.
“Oh!” I point to my table just a few yards away. “And could you charge them to that table?” I’m not paying for anything Reggie drinks. No way.
“Hello, there. I have another idea.” Words that lilt in a melt-your-heart kind of accent sound from the man at my right. A voice that makes me wonder if I can swap my date with the owner.
I exhale. Why not take two minutes to chat with a total stranger? One who isn’t convicted of a crime. Turning to facethat dreamy voice, my gaze lifts to a tan face, eyes dark as the night sky, and one sexy, trimmed black beard.
“You could always let me buy you a?—”
Pause.
Oh boy.All too quickly, I realize Iknowthat voice. I know that accent. And it’s not dreamy at all.
“McCrae?” he groans, as let down as I feel.
Yep, not a stranger?—
Saint Lucca Cruz. Reno-Tesoro Red Tail. My least favorite soccer player in the entire league is sitting on the bar stool next to me. And it’s clear he’s just recognized me as well.
Still, I slap on a smile, refusing to let this man have any kind of upper hand on me. “That’s sweet of you, Cruz. Really. But you should probably save all of your dollars and dimes for the next time you do something idiotic and the league fines you.”
“Margaret.” He snuffs out a laugh, one that tells me he isn’t really laughing.
My brows rise with my name on his lips. And while I’m not blind—they are very nice lips—they are also conceited and cocky lips. Sure, Lucca Cruz, Brazilian soccer player extraordinaire, is handsome—possibly stupidly so—but he knows it. And I don’t like him. Never have. Never will.
“What are you doing here?” he grunts.
“I don’t live on the field. You know that, right? Referees have lives outside of the game. Just like players. Teachers don’t live at schools. Librarians don’t sleep at the library. And referees get to go home, too.”
His brow furrows. “Librarians?”
“It’s a comparison to show you how childish you’re being.”
He juts out his chin. “I know you don’t live on the field. I just never pictured you as the fun-havingtype.”
My eyes flutter up to the ceiling and I snort out a laugh. “You say that like you actually know me.”
He scoffs. “Believe me, I know everything I want to know.”
“Perfect. We’re on the same page, then.”
“Two Diet Cokes,” the bartender says, sliding two glasses my way.
“Two?” Lucca says, judging me. He is so judging me right now.
“Yes, two.” I tap the bar and the man behind it looks back at me. “Thank you. Also, thisnicegentleman has offered to pay for my drinks. No need to charge my table.”
