The words sting more than they should. I try to keep my expression neutral, but something must show in my eyes because she straightens, looking slightly less certain.
“Is that what you think this is?” I ask.
She shrugs one shoulder. “Isn’t it? Guy with money, fame, and status walks into a bar, finds the one woman who doesn’t fawn over him, then decides she’s a challenge?”
“Hmm. You’ve got me all figured out, I guess.”
“Am I wrong?”
I want to consider my next words carefully and tell her she couldn’t be more wrong about me, but instead I tell her what she expects to hear. “No, you’re not wrong,” I answer, flatly. “You’ve got it exactly right. I’m only here because my ego can’t handle a woman who doesn’t immediately fall at my feet. I’m deeply wounded by your indifference.” I keep my expression deadpan as I sip my beer.
She doesn’t smile, but something shifts in her expression. Like, a tiny crack in the armor.
“Sarcasm doesn’t suit you, you know.”
“Actually, it suits me fine.” I set my glass down in front of me. “But I get why you’d think that’s what this is. Guys like me have a reputation.”
“Guys like you?”
“Athletes.” I shrug. “Rich guys. Whatever box you want to put me in.”
She studies me, arms folded across her chest. “And you think you’re different?”
“Nope.” I shake my head. “I think I’m exactly the guy you think I am.” I meet her gaze directly. “But maybe not in all the ways.”
A customer signals from the other end of the bar. She holds up a finger in acknowledgment without looking away from me.
“I’ll be right back,” she says, her voice cooler than before. “Try not to buy the place while I’m gone.”
I watch her move down the bar, efficiently and confidently, fielding orders and handling customers with an ease that seems natural. There’s a rhythm to her work, a certainty in her movements that’s mesmerizing. She doesn’t need to try to command attention, she just does.
When she returns, she’s carrying a small plate of fries.
“On the house,” she says, sliding them toward me. “Since you claimed they were the reason you came back.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Is this a peace offering or a test?”
“Both.” She leans against the counter, arms crossed as I lift a fry into my mouth. “So, you’re a football player.”
“Last time I checked.”
“For the Portland Rush.”
I nod. “Yep.”
“Quarterback.”
I raise a brow. “You googling me now?”
It seems I’ve made an impression.
She rolls her eyes again, not looking the least bit impressed. “And that pays well, I assume?”
“Well enough.” I dip a fry in ketchup, keeping my eyes on her. “Are we having the privilege conversation now?”
“Is that what you call it?”
I shrug. “Call it whatever you want. I’m just here for the fries.”
