Page 9 of Hard to Score

“You do have a point.” I bite my bottom lip, in that state of awkward limbo. I didn’t chicken out but of course, now I don’t know what to do. A sigh falls from my lips and I throw my hands up. “Honestly? I don’t know why I’m here. I know that I saw you the other day and since then I haven’t stopped thinking about when we were growing up and I don’t know . . . thought maybe we could catch up for old time’s sake.”

His stare is unrelenting and then a slow smile ghosts over his lips. “I was just about to throw a steak on the barbeque.”

“I couldn’t impose.”

“Good. I wasn’t going to share my steak with you anyway. I just thought you’d prefer to sit and watch me eat it.” My head startles as his words hit my ears and then he belts out a laugh. “You’re still easy as hell to rile up, Brex. Time sure as hell changed a lot of things about you, but it didn’t change that, now did it?” He takes a step back into his house and opens the door wider. “I was joking. I have plenty. Stay?”

“I wasn’t looking for you to invite me in.”

“No? If you’d prefer to keep stalking me, that window right there has a clear shot to the kitchen if you press your face up to it. But then again, that might call attention to the neighbors, and I’d think coming in through the front door would be a better time for you than being led off in handcuffs as a peeping Tom.”

“Very funny.” I snort.

“Then come in.”

Every part of my teenage heart flutters when he flashes me a grin as I walk past him and into his house. I don’t know what to think other than the house fits him. Or at least, what I think would fit him despite not really knowing him. It’s an open floor plan flooded with a ton of natural light against neutral walls with accent colors of grays and blues. While it looks like someone with a keen eye decorated it, each and every room I pass as I follow him to the kitchen looks comfortable and lived in.

I study the muscles in his back as he moves in front of me. His broad shoulders. His trim waist. I admire a well-trained physique like the next woman, but just like when I was a teenager, there is something about Drew that makes me want to sit and stare.

That makes me want to follow when I am definitely not a follower.

We move into the kitchen area. While it’s large in size, there’s an understated elegance to it that masks the ridiculously expensive appliances and cabinets. One that doesn’t make you feel weird pulling up a barstool for fear you might ding or scratch something.

“I was just about to have another beer,” Drew says as he rounds the island. “Would you like one or maybe a glass of wine? I have some red and some white. Don’t ask me what kind though or if it’s good because it’s simply on hand in case someone else wants some.” So he entertains enough to have wine he doesn’t drink on hand. Who though? The team? Women?

“At least you’re honest.”

“Always.”

“I’ll have a beer. Whatever you’re drinking.”

He lifts an eyebrow. “Women who wear heels as high as the ones you were wearing the other night usually don’t opt for a bottle of beer.”

He noticed the heels I was wearing. Let’s hope he also took note of the long, shapely legs they were attached to.

“I’m far from typical, Drew.”

He stops mid-motion and meets my eyes. There’s a quick flash of surprise in his eyes that stutters his smile, and I can’t say that I mind it. “Good to know,” he murmurs as he opens the refrigerator door and pulls out two bottles of a particularly good IPA, opens a bottle, and then slides it across the counter to me.

“Thank you,” I say as I turn to track him when he walks over to a huge, gray leather couch, grabs the T-shirt hanging off the back of it, and slips it over his head.

I want to groan in protest and tell him it doesn’t bother me that he’s shirtless, but that would sound quite weird.

So I force myself to appreciate the way the plain black shirt stretches over his body and smile when he turns to face me. Our eyes meet as he leans his butt against the back of the couch.

“So you want to catch up, talk about old times . . . yet you’re not talking.”

“It’s only been a few minutes.”

“So you need to get warmed up?” He nods. “Okay. You pretend you know what you’re going to say, and in the meantime, I’m going to throw the meat on. Sound like a plan?” His chuckle should irritate me but it does quite the opposite.

My sigh fills the space. “I didn’t mean for this to be awkward.”

“It’s not. But it’s kind of like a first date in a sense. We don’t know much about each other and what we do know isn’t exactly who we are now . . . so we’ll talk, we’ll drink, we’ll eat . . . and we’ll get to know each other.”

A first date?

In that case . . . and then I shake my head at my own stupidity for taking him so literally.