He frowned. "Maybe."
This guy, as a football player, made so much sense. And it helped to disperse those hot guy fumes he'd had before. I didn't have a great history with football players. Not since my first boyfriend made the varsity team when we were in high school.
"Maybe isn't really an answer," I pointed out, with the little eyebrow quirk I'd perfected by practicing in the mirror with my hairbrush microphone.
"Yeah. I play. But… I'm not really into broadcasting that right now. I'm supposed to be incognito this weekend."
"Ah," I said.
He stood there, crossing his arms.
I stood there, too, crossing my arms.
"Elliott is parking the car," McFlannel said, after the awkward pause dragged on a few beats too long.
I peeked around him. "Are these suitcases all yours?"
He blinked way harder than necessary. "No."
Right, well… "Then who do they belong to?"
"Elliott." He gave me a look like some of the cheese had slid off my cracker. "I lost the…you know…never mind."
"You lost the…?" I asked.
"Doesn't matter." He shook his head. "I said I'd bring them up."
"Oh," I said.
"Okay."
We stood there in an odd sort of silence.
"I lost a bet," he said, finally.
Well, that made more sense.
I refused to check him out again because this was my first night back, and I couldn't just pick up the first guy I ran into. And definitely not a football player. Of all the players, they were the worst.
Except… I hated to say this, but this guy felt different. Different in a fantastic way.
He did the thing guys do where they check out a woman and their eyes flare only around the edges to show their bodies are interested, even if their mind hasn't quite caught up with the physical response.
You know what? Actually, there wasn't a rule or anything about picking up the first guy I ran into.
This was Vegas. The one place rules were bendable.
No! Bad Maya! Stop it!
I was in town for business. This man was not business.
Then again… business wouldn’t take all night.
I peeked to ensure my maybe future one-night stand wasn't wearing a wedding band or showing the pale line of a guy who had slipped one off.
No ring. No pale line.
"Maya," he said my name like he was doing a taste test at an ice cream shop. Savoring the vowels to see how they felt against his tongue. "I like your name, Maya."
