Two Luke #3
“Because I know a really great Italian place, and I might be a stubborn ass, but I can help answer questions about soccer or the IFF.” It’s the best I can come up with. There. I’m selling it now, and when I tell the owners I tried, I’ll mean it.
“And you think I’m pretty?” she presses, a faint pink coloring her cheeks, like this information is brand-new to her.
I grunt in affirmation, and when her eyebrows raise in clear skepticism, I grind my molars.
“I think you’re out of my league, and too nice for me,” I finally force out. “You don’t need me to tell you you’re stunning.”
Her hands go to her hips, and my skin prickles in awareness at her careful perusal.
“Italian for dinner, then. Am I…meeting you there? Does this place have a name?”
“So you’ll still go?” I ask. Hope tightens my throat. God. Maybe I will get to finish out the rest of my good soccer-playing years and be able to help my mom out while she’s sick.
Maybe I can have it both ways.
A smile blooms on her face, and I blink. I wasn’t lying. Abigail Hunt is stunningly pretty.
“Mm-hmm,” she says softly, then wags a finger at me. “But you better be nicer to me.”
Shame slides through me, ice-cold.
“I’ll pick you up,” I tell her.
I’m not agreeing to be nicer. I don’t know if I can be.
“Here.” I hold out my phone. “Put your number in, and your address.”
“Or you could give me your number, and I can text it to you,” she says, her phone already in her hand.
When did she pull that out?
I was too busy staring at her eyes to notice.
Great. Way to play it cool, Luke.
“That works, too,” I make myself say once it’s clear she’s waiting for me to respond. Fuck, I’ve said more today than I normally do all week. I’m going to need a fucking cough drop at this rate.
“Then I’m going to need your number,” she says, and that gorgeous grin returns, her eyes scrunching up at the corners.
“Of course,” I say, mentally kicking myself as I rattle it off. “Pick you up at eight?”
She twists her lips to the side, her expressive face fascinating to watch. “Can we do earlier? I know it’s weird, but I like to be in bed early.”
I pause, caught off guard. And now I’m thinking about her in bed. Wondering what she wears to sleep…or if she doesn’t wear anything at all. My brain short-circuits at the thought of all that smooth skin sliding between her sheets, sliding under me.
Fuck. I’m no better than goddamn Marino.
“Is that okay?” she asks, and I realize I’ve been staring at her, imagining her naked, and haven’t answered her.
“Six work?” I finally rasp out.
“Six sounds great.” That superstar grin lights up her face, and I can’t help but bask in the glow, even though I know I shouldn’t.
I shouldn’t fucking enjoy this at all. I’m only asking her out because I want to get the hell out of LA. I’m only asking her out because the damned owners are pressuring me to.
But Abigail Hunt isn’t like anyone I’ve ever met.
She doesn’t deserve a jerk like me. Still, she keeps smiling at me, the silence thick between us.
“I just go back the way I came to find Michelle’s office?” she finally asks.
She wasn’t staring at me, thinking about me naked in bed like I was thinking about her. Nope, she was silent because I am a dick and forgot she doesn’t know her way around here.
“Yeah.” A beat passes, and I realize I’m an idiot. “Or I can show you how to get to her office.”
“I can manage.” She reaches out, her fingertips barely brushing over the top of my hand in reassurance. Surprise steals my breath at the minimal contact.
“Do you remember how to get there?” I ask, too aware of our hands hanging between us, too aware of her closeness.
She beams at me like I’ve just asked the most heartwarming, thoughtful thing in the world instead of the belated bare minimum.
A small part of me wants her to say no so I can walk her to Michelle’s office.
The rest of me wants to wash my hands of this entire situation, including my skin’s traitorous memory of her soft fingertips.
“I think I do. See you at six,” she says, already in motion.
She disappears down the hall, and a muscle twitches in my temple.
I shouldn’t feel guilty. I’m the Wolf. I’m the biggest asshole in pro soccer, the villain known for picking fights and playing dirty, and the only reason anyone puts up with me is because I’m good at kicking a fucking ball.
It’s why the owners probably didn’t think twice about putting me up to a stunt like this for ticket sales.
They knew I’d say yes—knew out of all the guys on the roster, I’m the one with nothing to lose.
My attitude on and off the field’s what’s had me traded more than any player on my team, and while my skills more than make up for it, most coaches don’t want someone like me on their squad.
A lone wolf.
I scratch the five-o’clock shadow on my jawline, trying to push down the unusual guilt.
I’ll wine and dine Abigail Hunt. Anything to get back to Seattle. It’s not a real relationship or a real date—it’ll be easy to forget her. Hell, she’ll probably forget me by the time her IFF movie starts shooting.
Everyone already knows I’m a jackass, so what’s one more person who thinks so?