I suck in a sharp breath, feeling my resolve weakening. That’s how much power he still holds over me.
“I-I-I’m at work,” I finally stutter, feeling pretty exposed, myself, in this moment.
How? How does hedoit?
He offers me a small smile, his face full of understanding, and I hate it. Ihatethat he still can read me so well. That he knows I’m softening with just one look. That he knows I’m fighting it … and failing.
“After work?” he suggests, taking another tentative step towards me. He pauses, then, watching me with hopeful eyes. Waiting to see what I’ll do.
I allow it.
God help me, I allow it.
“Will you meet me somewhere after work?” he repeats, but I’m already shaking my head.
“I can’t. My boys—” I start, then cut myself off.
“Right,” he says, nodding. Then again, to himself, “Right. You have two boys.”
Fuckity, fuck, fuck. I cannot let the conversation go in this direction. He needs to stay far, far away from my family life. Why did I bring up the boys?
Scrambling for a change of subject, I blurt, “What were you showing Piper before I came in?”
That seems to do the trick. I watch in awe as Riley’s face transforms from one of cautious hope to … a beaming smile.
He’s suddenlybeaming, and it’s …
Gorgeous, I think, with a mental sigh.
It’s gorgeous.He’sgorgeous.
And while I stand there taking in the wide curving grin, I can’t help but notice other details about him I hadn’t allowed myself to see or acknowledge the other night. Like the strong cut of his jaw beneath his dark, shortly-trimmed beard—a beard that had felt surprisingly good against my skin when he’d kissed me. And the width of his shoulders. Yep, those are pretty nice too. He’s definitely added some bulk since his basketball days. Despite being in peak athletic form back then, there’s no question he’s a grown man now; any lingering softness—the lankiness of his teen years—is long gone.
I’m loath to admit it, but he looks good. Really, good.
He’s wearing a black Henley, the fabric stretched enticingly across a broad chest where I can actually make out the valley between his pecs—for real.And his sleeves are pushed up, revealing a hint of a tattoo on his left arm—one I suspect wraps the entirety of that side of his body, for it peeks similarly abovehis collar, spilling onto his neck. I’ve never liked tattoos all that much before, and you better believe I threw a fit when Matty mentioned wanting one last year, but now I find myself wondering what exactly it is. If it’s a combination of multiple designs, or one large one. What could have been important enough for him to permanently mark his body, and can I peel off his shirt to trace the lines with my tongue?
Oh hell, where did that thought come from?
Is it getting hot in here?
Continuing my perusal, I travel my gaze over his torso, across what I have no doubt is a finely toned six-pack of abs, and down to where dark jeans fit snuggly around thick, muscular thighs. And between those thighs?
No.
Nope!
Not going there.
I don’t have to anyway because my memory’s remained pretty intact where that’s concerned. And, bythatI mean, well …
I’m suddenly feeling very flushed, now, because you know what they say about ballers?
I swallow thickly.
Big hands. Ballers have big hands.
And you know what they say about big hands?
