“No, it doesn’t.” I jerk a linen napkin from beside the plate, wiping my face, but instead, I spread the stickiness.
“Why do hotels think these napkins are high class? They don’t absorb anything. At all.”
He chuckles as he strides into the bathroom, bringing a wet washcloth out. “Here, let me.”
Parker places his fingers under my chin, holding my face steady as he cleans the sweet from me. Then he picks up both spoons, handing me one.
“Eat one bite with me. It’s just sugar.”
“It’s not that I don’t like sweets, I do. It’s that this is…”
“Dessert. That’s all.”
“Okay, big guy. But you’re a giant and I’m … well, every bite of sugar goes to my…” I pat my hand against one of my hips.
“Every guy on the team would like to get his hands on your hips. On the count of three we both eat.”
Using his fingers, he counts down like he’s on the NASA lift off team.
With one pointer finger up, he says, “Scoop.”
On two, he says, “Cheers.” He hits his spoon against mine. I can’t help but smile at his playfulness.
On three, he says, “Now wrap those pretty lips around the spoon.”
It’s all gravelly and scratchy, making my panties damp.And I want to do more than wrap my lips around the spoon, I want to wrap them around what I think would be his velvety head. I swallow and close my eyes, enjoying the creaminess on my tongue and trying to talk myself out of the feelings I’m having.
I sit on the edge of the couch and he turns on the television, a sports channel, of course.
“…and the question remains whether Parker O’Ryan can live up to the legacy of his family?—”
I freeze, not even glancing at him.
Parker doesn’t move.
“…some professional analysts are even suggesting he may have been better off sticking with hockey.”
The words hang in the room like a thunderstorm. Heavy. Rumbling.
When I glance at him, he’s staring at the screen, jaw tight. Dimples nowhere in sight.
This is what is weighing on him, but how can I turn it around? I need to find out more about his hockey and why he left the sport for football.
“Turn it off,” I say with more protectiveness than I intend.
Instead of hitting the off button, he lowers the volume. “I’ve heard worse.”
“Have you?”
Parker, by all accounts except mine, is easy going. His teammates in college loved him. The girls couldn’t get enough of him. Professors doted on him. His family obviously loves him, and his Armadillo teammates enjoy being around him.
He scoops up the ice cream and brownie as if it will magically make what he heard disappear. His tongue swipes over the cream left on his lip. Then he looks at me, really looks. “What do you want to know?” he asks, catching me off guard.
“What?”
“You’ve been analyzing me since the day we met. Go ahead.”
I wrestle with my words, thinking about where to start. “Why did you leave the Michigan hockey team?”
