Page 10 of Love, Literature, and the Linebacker

His lips twitch. “So, romantic fantasy.”

“Maybe.”

He hums, clearly pleased with himself. “Is there romance in it?”

That does it.

I snap the book shut and glare at him. “I really am waiting for someone, and I’m not in the mood to chat with some football player whose dad is a mechanic.”

“Ouch,” he says, laughing softly. “Some football player?”

“I’m assuming,” I say, crossing my arms, “since you were hanging out with the team last night.”

“Fair assumption,” he replies easily.

And then, to my horror, pulls out the chair across from me and sits down like this was always his plan.

“That seat is taken,” I groan.

His gaze drops to the cover. “Can I?”

Before I can decide whether to say no, he tips the book gently toward himself, reading the synopsis upside down.

“Called it.” He taps the cover once. “Romantic fantasy.”

I clap my hands together in exaggerated enthusiasm. “Amazing. Truly. Now that you’ve solved the mystery, can you please leave?”

He goes quiet, as though he’s reconsidering everything he assumed about me.

“How do you feel about Shakespeare?”

I stare at him. “Shakespeare?”

“Yes.”

“I tell you I’m meeting someone, and you take that as an invitation to sit down and discuss Shakespeare?”

“Correct.”

I narrow my eyes. “Comedies or tragedies?”

“Both.”

“You’re impossible.”

He grins, completely unbothered. “We can switch to novelists if you’d prefer.”

“Let me guess. Your favorite writer is Hemingway.”

“I liked A Farewell to Arms, but no.”

“Fitzgerald.”

“Overrated.”

I study him more carefully now—the rugged stubble, the dimple in his right cheek, the kind of wild eyebrows that make him look slightly untamed despite the clean-cut athlete thing he has going on.

“Kerouac,” I guess.