What the hell am I doing?
I gather my laptop, purse and head down to eat. The place is packed with Armadillo fans. After ordering dinner, I open my laptop and go over my notes on Parker, making sure his name is blacked out in case someone looks over my shoulder.
Once they bring my food, I shut my computer and take in my surroundings. Black exposed pipes make a puzzle of the tall ceiling. Wooden chairs. Glass tables. A selection of spirits that rivals any place in Texas I’ve been.
That’s when the television shows highlights of the last few Armadillo games and fans start muttering about Parker O’Ryan.
“He’s only here because his brother is the head coach.”
“No other reason except nepotism.”
One woman says, “He was decent last year. What happened?”
“So he caught a few big-time passes. Nothing another wide receiver couldn’t have done.”
“He is handsome though. No denying that,” an older lady shouts.
A guy stands up and says, “I played with him at Texas and that guy has the IT factor. Give him a break.”
I think about approaching his former teammate, wondering if he really played with Parker and or if he ispiggybacking on Parker’s name. I don’t. But while I’m scratching down notes my phone buzzes.
Parker: I’m back.
I wait a while before taking the elevator up to the fifteenth floor. I will not have him believing that I can’t wait to be in a room with him alone.
All. Night. Long.
FOURTEEN
ANNIKA
I knock on Parker’s door, and he opens it in a tight, white tank top, exposing his arm muscles and even his abs through the thin material. His sweats are gray.
He’s barefoot.
Relaxed.
Dangerous.
“Hey,” he says, widening the door.
“Hey.”
He steps aside, gesturing for me to come in. The first thing I notice, after his body, is he’s ordered dessert with two spoons on the tray.
“You eat like this during the season?” I ask.
“Carbs are performance fuel.”
“Not the right kind of carbs.”
He digs his spoon into the skillet brownie. “Please don’t ruin this for me,” then attempts to stick it in my mouth.
I snap my head to the side and the glob of ice cream andcaramel hits my cheek instead of my mouth. It drips down my neck like cold lava, slow as it melts.
At first, I’m in shock, then I tag his shoulder, hard. “What’re you doing?”
“Trying to tame a lion evidently.” His face is bright. “Messy looks good on you.”
