“Then dessert is on you.” He smirks. “I’ll put my order in now: key lime pie.”
He. Is. So. Freaking. Cocky.
I exhale, my hands flexing from thinking about opening the bottle.
They’re all looking at me with expectant faces, and dammit, I know there has to be a trick here. They’ve probably been sitting here tightening it up for the past half-hour like overgrown kids.
But I’m no weakling either. I work out. I do yoga. I run. Heck, I do all the things.
“Do it, do it,” Blaze chants, and I tell him to zip it.
“I don’t think you have the balls, cher.” This comes from Archer, his lilting Cajun accent reminding me he’s from Louisiana. I take in his Billy Idol vibe: bleached hair, diamond studs in his ears, and full-sleeve tattoos. He gives me the creeps, but it isn’t because of his bad boy appearance. It’s the sly, beady look in his eyes that bugs me.
I move past him and look at Ryker—who grins.
Gah.
I know I should just ignore them and keep working, but something about him gets the rebel in me riled up. I want to win and rub it in his handsome freaking face.
“Fine, give it to me.”
The guys clap and fist-bump each other as I hold my hand out. Ryker swipes the bottle off the table and stands to walk over and offer it to me.
I’m five ten, yet he towers over me when I look up at him.
“Good luck,” he says with a smirk as he passes it off. Our fingers brush—accidentally—and electric sparks detonate. I realize it’s the first time we’ve ever touched skin to skin, and my mind goes back to the sexy snippet I wrote. My entire body flushes.
I wonder if he feels the same current because he gets this peculiar expression on his face and drops his hand quickly, a scowl on his face. He considers me carefully, as if I’m a puzzle he can’t quite figure out.
Whatever. I don’t have time to dissect his reaction.
I look down at the full bottle, and it appears to have never been opened. I give it a try, testing it out with a strong tug, but the white cap doesn’t budge. This might be harder than I thought.
“Need some help?” Ryker says as he takes his seat.
“Not from you.”
He just grins. Again. Unfazed by my rudeness.
And I’ll be honest, there’s a dimple on his right cheek that does squishy things to my insides when he smiles. It always has. But, like I’ve done in the past, when it comes to a womanizing football player, I squash that feeling down. Football players are not for me.
Time to get serious and get this mother off. I take a break from twisting, set my sucker on a napkin on the table, and then wipe the sweat off my hands on my apron. I go in again, bending over and holding the bottle with one hand while the other tugs at the stubborn cap.
Ryker watches me with avid, intense interest, and it makes me more determined.
There is no way in hell I’m serving him pie on my dime.
“Penelope! Penelope! Penelope!” Blaze chants, and I glare at him to be quiet.
A few more twists and pop! it’s free.
I let out a triumphant cry, but because of the angle and the pressure inside the bottle, red liquid spurts out everywhere. I look down at my I ♥ Vampires shirt, which now sports a blob of dark crimson ketchup that starts at my right shoulder, crosses my A cups, and then trails down to the waist of my yellow skinny jeans.
Great. I’m covered in half the bottle.
And it’s my favorite shirt.
Ugh.
Everyone at the table bursts out laughing, and my hands clench. My gaze darts around the group and when I meet Ryker’s gaze, he stops smiling, sobering as he takes in my face. “That wasn’t supposed to happen.”
“But fuck if it isn’t funny,” says Archer the Asshole.
“Dude, you look like someone shot you,” Blaze adds.
“Thanks,” I snap.
The jersey chasers giggle again.
“Shut up,” Ryker says quickly, and then he looks back at me. “You okay?” He stands back up and hands me a wad of napkins, but I push them away.
My lips tighten. “I’m fine. I’m going to go clean up, but when I come back, I want my money.”
He nods and gives me a long, searching look…one I can’t decipher. “Done.”
Penelope
I stand in front of the mirror in the restroom and gasp. Holy moly, I’m a total disaster. Red is on my shirt, my neck, my cheek, and there’s even a dab in my hair. I let out a heavy sigh as I wipe at it with a wet paper towel. At least my hair is auburn and the red will just blend right in. I scrub at the stain on my shirt, but all I end up doing is making a giant wet spot.
“Forget it,” I mutter to myself a few minutes later as I straighten my lopsided messy bun and adjust my glasses. My makeup is faded, and I reach into my apron for a tube of cherry red lipstick then quickly swipe it over my mouth. Like that’s going to improve the situation. I need a makeover and new clothes stat.
I walk out of the restroom and take in Sugar’s Bar and Grill, a restaurant in Magnolia, Mississippi. The dinner rush is over, but a few stragglers will come in, mostly college students. Only a block from campus, Sugar’s has a modern farmhouse feel with galvanized steel light fixtures, pale pine floors, and straight-back metal chairs, but the food…well, that’s what keeps the place hopping. It’s the only restaurant near campus to get anything you want served up with a side of fresh fried green tomatoes. Their menu also features Southern classics, such as chicken and dumplings or macaroni and cheese with bacon sprinkled on top. Just thinking about it makes my stomach rumble. I was so wrapped up in writing during my break that I forgot to eat.
I sigh and head to the football table, where they promptly hand over the money. “Nice doing business with you, boys,” I say before flouncing off, feeling Ryker’s eyes on me the entire time.
What’s his deal with me?
I mean, you’d think he’d want to avoid me because of the article, but it’s as if his mission is to be around me as much as he can. In fact, I’m not even sure he knew who I was before I wrote it since we don’t run in the same circles. I suspect he’s torturing me.
I push him out of my head and walk over to a table that needs bussing, picking up half-empty soda glasses and putting them on my tray. The door chimes, signaling that someone has come in, and I raise my head to see—
Whoa.
I freeze.
Bring out the angels and cue the hallelujah chorus.
Now that’s the kind of man I should be writing sexy scenes about.
Standing at the door is Connor Dimpleshitz—yes, his surname is unfortunate, but his IQ makes up for it. I’ve been crushing on him since our sociology class last semester.
Framed by a golden halo of sunlight as it glints through the windows, I decide he’s what would happen if Albert Einstein and Henry Cavill had a baby. “A hot genius. The perfect unicorn,” I murmur to myself.
I chew on my lip, debating on whether to mosey up to him and say hi or hide.
Hide wins. I know, I’m a little ridiculous, especially since we have calculus together this semester and he’ll obviously see me at some point in class.
But then I’ll have good hair and ketchup-free clothes.
I quickly survey the possibilities for my escape as the hostess seats him in another server’s section. My eyes land on the right side of the restaurant, where I could make a mad dash for the kitchen, but he’s bound to see me darting since I’d have to walk past him. Plus, I want to hang around and watch him without him knowing.
I come to a decision. Wrangling the tray of half-empty sodas I cleared, I quickstep it over to the back left corner, the farthest away from the double doors of the entrance. I maneuver my body into an awkward hunkering position behind a huge potted plant with wide fan-shaped leaves. At least five feet tall with a gnarly brown trunk, the green monster is perfect camouflage.
I peek around a big leaf that’s in dire need of a good dusting, judging by the motes floating around. Feeling paranoid that someone is a witness to my absurdity, I throw a quick glance over my shoulder to make sure no one’s around.
Ryker. Shit.
He’s staring at me from the football table, and there’s a glint in his gaze, as if he’s wondering what I’m doing.
I scowl and stick my tongue out at him. He makes me feel so rebellious and flustered and…excited.
I can’t even stop myself. Ugh.
His expression deepens in amusement, and I grimace, realizing my butt is sticking out. His annoying eyebrow jacks up and says, What the hell are you doing?
With eye telepathy I tell him to mind his own freaking business.
I pointedly turn my back on him and focus on The Unicorn.
A few seconds later, a familiar deep voice resonates from behind me, making me start. “You look a little flustered, Penelope. Spying on someone for your next story, perhaps?”
I freeze. Blink. His voice is husky and lower than before when he was calling me garçon, the tone reminding me of languid summer nights under a starry Southern sky while he gives me deep, passionate kisses—
Good Lord. Stop your daydreaming. Must. Stop. Reading. Romances.
I heave out a sigh and turn around to face Ryker.
What the hell does he want now?
“I don’t submit to the Wildcat Weekly anymore,” I say.
I worked for them most of last year, covering the home games and a few random articles. With a dad who was in the NFL, I know a lot about football, but when Sugar’s offered me more hours, I took it.