Chapter 8 #2
The biggest surprise is how much I no longer care about the way people stare at me as I run up and down the aisles, grinning and downright determined to win this utterly pointless game.
Maybe I do have a drop of competitiveness somewhere in my blood.
And when I’ve been up and down every aisle and still haven’t figured out what a fill valve is, I halt in front of a male employee who looks to be about my age, give him my sweetest smile, and ask for help.
Two minutes later, with a full basket bumping against my hip, I run for the front of the store—only to find Cash standing with his basket at his feet, his posture proud and masculine. As I slow to a defeated walk, he makes a show of checking his watch and giving a wide, exaggerated yawn.
“Don’t even,” I say, laughing. “I see some heavy breathing under that sweatshirt. You just got here.”
“Heavy breathing?” He scoffs. “I know you’re new to Shafer, darling, but I’ve been a D1 athlete for four years now. There are few things that get me breathing hard, and a trip to the hardware store isn’t one of them.”
From the mouth of anyone else, I’d give a forced smile to be polite while internally rolling my eyes at the bragging, but Cash’s half-joking, half-serious demeanor—and my imaginings of what gets him breathing heavy—are straight-up sexy.
“Forgive me, Mr. Football. So what do I owe you as the losing party?”
“Oh, damn. Yeah, that’s right, now I get to choose my prize.” He rubs his hands together. “I’m gonna need some time to think it through.”
“I guess it was a mistake not to settle the terms before the game started.”
“Yours, not mine.” He drapes a friendly arm around my shoulders and steers me toward the checkout. “But don’t you worry. I promise to make it good for both of us.”
Holy shit. Those words, that voice, that mouth of his a safe but threatening distance from my skin. It takes everything I have to suppress the shiver that threatens to rip through me.
Does he know he’s pure sex to me right now?
I swallow, struggling to escape the chokehold of my desire.
I have to stop this. I know he flirts with everyone, but it feels too real, too dangerous.
It feels like he could only ever talk to me like this, and that’s a problem.
Shifting the basket at my hip, I subtly slip out from under his arm. “Cash—”
“Oh, I almost forgot.” He stops short. “I have to grab something for Mr. Jangles. Hang tight, I’ll be right back.”
Wondering who Mr. Jangles is, I watch him head toward the aisles.
Halfway there, two girls in Shafer hoodies approach him with excited, pretty smiles.
Do they know him personally, or are they football fans?
Cash nods at them and tries to walk past, but they block his path, and one of the two stands so close to him that jealousy tugs at me.
But this is normal for him, beautiful girls approaching him everywhere he goes.
I can hardly blame him if he flirts with everyone.
But this time, he doesn’t. He pauses and chats with them for maybe half a minute, but his eyes keep going to the signs overhead, and then he excuses himself and carries on. So maybe the accusation isn’t true.
A minute later, he’s back and carrying a two-foot-tall fuzzy pink structure.
“Who is Mr. Jangles, and what is that thing?”
“Jangles is my cat, and this is about to be her cat tower. Girl needs a little variety in her life.”
“Mr. Jangles is a girl?”
He sighs. “Long story, and I don’t like how I come off, so let’s save it for later.” He holds up the cat tower for inspection. “If you were a cat, would you like this?”
Resisting the urge to tell him how adorable that line of concern etched into his forehead is, I laugh.
The snow has thickened by the time we step outside. Cash carries our purchases and keeps close to me as we trek through the sloppy parking lot, one hand at my back.
The car ride is silent while he focuses on navigating the slippery roads, creeping through icy intersections and slushy lanes. But as soon as he puts the car in park back in my aunt’s driveway, his beaming smile makes a return in full force.
“Okay, Georgia.” He keeps his voice low, yet in the quiet of the car, with only the soft whisper of snowflakes patting the roof, it fills the small space between us. “I know what I want my prize to be.”
A flutter of nerves erupts in my belly, less because he might ask for something I don’t want to give and more because he might ask for something I do.
“But first I have to ask you something.” He turns in his seat, facing me with a grave expression. “Do you have a boyfriend back home?”
When I shake my head, the relief on his face is as adorable as it is dangerous. “Does that affect you collecting your prize?”
“Only whether I feel guilty doing it.” He flashes a smile. “Come to our party tonight.”
Surprise silences me.
“It won’t be huge, mostly football players and girls.”
I shake my head, even though the invitation fills me with pleasure. “I’m really not a party person, Cash. I barely drink, I’m not good at making conversation, I can’t dance.”
“Good. I like that about you. I’m not asking you to be anything other than what you are, I’m just asking you to show up and let me show you a good time.”
I hesitate. “I know it sounds weird, but I actually enjoy staying in and doing my little hobbies. They keep me in the right headspace. So if you’re asking because you feel bad for me or—”
“Georgia, you’re perfect. Why the hell would I ever feel bad for you?”
An uncomfortable laugh bubbles up within me. “Because maybe Maisy told you I need to make friends or something like that.”
“Maisy told me to stay away from you.”
The words I’d planned to say next die in my throat.
“Look, I promise you don’t have to stay long if you’re not having the best fucking night of your life, okay?”
I chuckle at the way he so casually makes such astronomical promises. It should be an easy no. I hate parties, so there’s zero chance this is going to be the best night of my life, but when I think about telling him no, I realize I don’t want to.
“Maybe,” I finally say.
He grins like he’s already won.