Jake grins. "Thanks. I try."
"I can't believe you know these guys." Evan turns to the bartender. "You see who's here? Finn Fucking Mannus and Jake Ryder."
The bartender, who had been down the bar, pouring drinks perks up. "No shit." Soon he's leaning in, wide eyed as a kid in a toy store.
I roll my eyes again, and my gaze clashes with Finn's. He's not paying his fans any attention, but is watching me. Amusement lightens his expression, and for one strange moment, it feels as though we're sharing a secret joke. "Bet you didn't know my middle name was ‘fucking'," he murmurs as the bartender shakes Jake's hand.
"I'd have guessed ‘asshat'," I tease.
Finn presses his big hand to his chest, now sadly covered in a white t-shirt. "You wound me, Chester Copper."
Shaking my head, I incline my head toward his. "The fact that you keep calling me Chester might have something to do with it, Finnegan Mannus."
"Actually, it's Finnegan Asshat Mannus."
"So I was right."
"You're the only one who's figured it out."
I hadn't realized how close we'd gotten to each other, that we were nearly nose to nose, him bent over me, his hand resting on the back of my chair. But a loud laugh bursts the little bubble we've created for ourselves, and a man slaps a hand on Finn's big shoulder.
Finn's expression tightens for a second before he turns his head to look back at whoever grabbed him.
"Manny!" the guy yells in glee. "I can't fucking believe it."
"Believe!" I cry, waving my hands in the air.
Finn nudges my side with his elbow. "Cute."
I blink innocently, but don't miss the way he keeps his arm pressed against mine, as if we're together. His skin is warm and firm, and has my body's complete attention. Which is wrong; I'm on a date with … fuck, not again. Edward? Ethan?
"Evan," I mutter, pulling Finn's attention back to me.
"No, it's Finn," he says, smug as hell.
He's so tall, I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. "I'm on a date with Evan."
He lifts a brow, glancing at my date, who is gesturing wildly as he talks to Jake about football stats. "Looks like it's going well."
"Well, maybe if someone hadn't interrupted it … "
"You would have fallen asleep on your stool?" he offers, lightly.
I exaggerate taking a sip of my vodka, turning my back on him even as he chuckles low and close to me. The sound sinks into my skin, an unwelcome prickle that makes everything shiver.
But then he's crowded by more fans, more slaps on the shoulder. The loss of his attention is like being pulled out from under hot stage lights. It's cold and dark where he isn't.
I snort into my glass and keep drinking. I'm losing it around this guy. It's his fame I'm reacting to. That's all. It's normal. Normal.
Except none of the other football players I photographed today did anything for me. And none of them sent giddy anticipation fluttering through my middle.
Manly, deep laughter rumbles around me and then I hear it; the softly feminine lilt of a bunch of women on the prowl. Stiffening, I glance over my shoulder. Sure enough, four women have found their way to Finn and Jake.
These women aren't wide-eyed with fame. Oh, they've clearly recognized Finn and Jake, but they aren't fazed. No, they're sizing Finn and Jake up, looking for a good in. Hell, I've been part of such groups, heady college days when we'd go out in search of cute guys. It was thrilling back then, the anticipation of hooking up, maybe finding someone who I'd actually want to stick around afterwards. Now, the thought of searching makes me tired.
///
Pushing my drink away, I lean past Finn's wide shoulders and tap Evan on the arm. He's so caught up in fawning over his idols that it takes a couple of taps before he notices.
"I'm going to call it a night," I tell him.
Relief washes over his face, though he does try. "You want me to take you home?"
"No," I insist, needing to escape and fast. "I'm good. You have fun."
I don't mention seeing him again. We both know that's not going to happen. He's already turned back to Jake.
Grabbing my purse and my jacket, I slide off the stool. Finn, who has been mobbed by women, wrenches around and his gaze narrows on me. "You leaving?"
"Yep."
A brunette hangs on his arm, and he slips free of her before stepping back to give me room.
"Night," I tell him, needing a clean get away. The longer I linger, the more I'll like him. And I know my time with Finn is akin to getting a glimpse of a shooting star.
He touches my elbow. "I'll walk you."
The heat of his fingertips sends little fissures of awareness skittering over my skin. I won't pretend the attraction between us isn't there. But it's superficial at best. Still, I'm not surprised he wants to act on it. From the second he appeared at my shoulder, I'd known his play would arrive, a foregone conclusion with the inevitable cliché ending; hot, cocksure, famous guy bags the woman who gave him shit earlier.
I don't think he's trying to be a dick. He's just following the script. Doesn't mean I have to.
Two women press in on both sides, wanting to be near him. I glance their way and give them a tight smile. Finn doesn't acknowledge their presence, but gives me an expectant look.
I put on my jacket then sling my purse over my shoulder. "It's all right. I'm perfectly fine walking by myself."
Finn lifts a hand the way cops do when they're about to give you shit. "Can't do it, Copper. I won't feel right not seeing you home."
"Don't go all caveman on me, Mannus."
The guy is like rubber, happily bouncing back with each volley I serve. "Didn't you know?" he says lightly. "All football players are part cavemen. Some more than others."
I'd never have thought a six four, muscle-packed guy would be cute. But he is. And it's hard to resist him. "Be that as it may, I'm really fine."
We reach the door and Finn opens it me. "Okay then, walk me home."
"You?" Despite myself, I pause on the sidewalk, the humid night air wet on my skin.
Finn's tan skin glows purple in the light of the bar sign. "Yeah. I don't feel safe going it alone."
Such innocence in his expression. I bite back a smile. "And where do you live?"
He gives me my address.
Laughing, I shake my head. "Persistent bugger, aren't you?"
"Again, football player. We don't give up."
With that, I find myself being walked home by the quarterback. With the brim of his cap down low over his head, and his hands tucked into his pockets, no one seems to notice who he is. He still draws glances; a tall, fit guy with an etched jaw will always get attention. But we walk along unhindered.
Crossing Bourbon Street is a show, as usual. Music blares from all corners, country from one bar, rock from another, blues down the street. Drunks and gawkers flow past us like geese in a flock. Finn steps closer to me, his arm brushing mine. "You see," he says, bending low to my ear. "I might have been swept up in the mob if you weren't here to guard me."
I snort. "I'm sure it would have been horrible. Dozens of strangers all vying to buy you a drink."
"Endless women showing me their tits," he says with an expansive sigh. "And me without any beads to give them."
"I doubt they'd mind."
The corners of his eyes crinkle as he looks at me from under his brim. "No. But I'd rather be with you anyway."
I'm not one to flush. I blame the heat in my cheeks to the balmy night air. "I'm not sleeping with you," I blurt out.
"All right."
"All right?"
A laugh leaves him in a huff of breath. "You expect me to beg?"
"No. Of course not. I just … that was easy."
His big shoulders lift in a shrug. "I'm an easy going guy."
"At the risk of sounding paranoid, this all feels odd. Like you're playing me."
His lips quirk. "You do sound paranoid. Tell me, does this paranoia affect all areas of your life, or is it just with men?"
///
We cross Canal at a brisk pace before the light can turn. "I've never been walked home by a man without him expecting something, Dr. Phil."
"You've been walking home with the wrong men, Chess."
No one knows this better than me. But I slow my steps. "Look me in the eye right now," I say to him. "And tell me that you have walked a woman home without intending to get in her pants."
He halts, which has me stopping too. From the bar on our right comes the sound of Elvis crooning about how he can't help falling in love. It's loud and sappy and fills the resounding silence between as we stare at each other in challenge.