Fake Fiancée(9)

“Oh?”

“Just pulling down wallpaper and general repair stuff.”

“Sounds like work,” he murmured, giving me a once-over, as if surprised.

“Tuition isn’t cheap and books don’t buy themselves.” It was no secret he came from money. Heck, his dad was a famous NFL player turned sportscaster.

“There you go—being prickly,” he smirked, but looked oddly pleased.

“It’s been a heck of a day, okay? And I still haven’t had coffee.”

“We can’t have that.” He whipped the car into the Circle K, told me to wait a minute, and then came back five minutes later with two Styrofoam cups. He tossed sugar and packets of creamer in my lap. “It’s not Starbucks, but it’ll hit the spot.”

My heart flip-flopped when I accepted the cup, cradling it like the Holy Grail. I tore the lid off and inhaled the first sip. Maybe he wasn’t a douche like all the other athletes in my life.

He chuckled as he pulled back out to the street. “You should have mentioned coffee was the way to tame you.”

“Yeah,” I murmured, settling back in the seat. “Muffins and scones work too.”

He pulled into the lot behind the Clark Science Building, parked, and turned the ignition off. But for some reason, neither of us moved to get out. He fiddled with his keys, as if he wanted to say something. Then he took off his sunglasses and twirled them around his fingers. He was a live wire, and I couldn’t help but follow his every move. A lock of dark hair had come loose from his bun, the chestnut and honey highlights begging for my fingers to push it out of his eyes.

Don’t do it, Sunny.

I wanted to fill in the silence, though.

“So your breakup sucked too, huh?” Bianca Something was his ex’s name, and their tumultuous relationship had been the talk of campus last year. The sports media had even mentioned their crazy back and forth a few times. Heck, I’d witnessed them arguing once on the quad. I’d been coming around a tree when I saw them facing off, plain as day that they were having a huge fight. As I’d watched, she’d thrown a book at his head and yelled obscenities. He’d stormed off with his fists clenched.

A shadow crossed his face. “She screwed up my game last year. Can you believe she still throws herself at me when her boyfriend isn’t around?”

“Want me to kick her ass?”

He laughed.

I laughed.

And we stared at each other.

Okay, the staring thing was getting weird as heck. But I couldn’t stop—and neither could he. Heat grew in his gaze, and I felt my own body responding. Melting.

Get out of the fancy car, Sunny. Mr. Quarterback is dangerous.

“Wait,” he said as I moved to open the door. His hand touched my arm, lingering down to my wrist. My heart thundered. Good grief. I was as weak as a baby kitten.

I clenched my fists.

Keep your panties on, Sunny. Don’t. Fall. For. The. Quarterback.

My brain briefly noted that a football player was the only athlete I hadn’t dated. In high school, before I’d left to be homeschooled, it had been a scorching hot basketball player who could run down the court fast as lightning. At Southwest it had been a lean volleyball player with the softest kisses. Then it had been Bart, my latest, who was a sexy baseball player well on his way to the majors this spring. I sighed. The truth is I had a horrible, horrible thing for them. Call it opposites attract or whatever, but athletes were magnets to my heart, and once I let them in, they obliterated me.

“Yeah?” I studied his face, taking in the perfection of each feature.

He reciprocated the appreciation, his gaze skating over the V of my shirt just enough to make my nipples harden. Stupid nipples.

“Do you feel this thing between us? Like a connection?” he murmured and then scoffed a little under his breath as if the idea was ludicrous.

“No,” I lied.

“Really? The moment I opened my door, something strange happened.” He gave me a self-deprecating shrug. “That is, unless my girl radar is completely off the rails.”

I laughed, but then quickly sobered.

Why would the King of Leland Football be interested in me?

He was like . . . this famous football star that the entire university—heck, the entire state of Georgia—adored.

I mean, don’t get me wrong, guys hit on me sometimes when I went out. I have long blond hair and nice boobs, but I wasn’t anything special. My nose was a little too long and my cheekbones a little too broad to be considered a conventional beauty. I rarely wore makeup except for lipstick and mascara, and I wasn’t big on dressing sexy unless you counted skinny jeans and flats.

A black jeep whipped into the parking spot next to me and my breath caught.

“Someone you know?” Max asked.

“My ex.” The anxious feeling I’d woken up with grew in the pit of my stomach.

“You dated Bart Morgan, the pitcher of the baseball team? Huh. Maybe that’s why you look so familiar. Maybe I saw you at the athletic banquet last year?”

I nodded.

“He’s why you don’t date athletes?”

“He’s why I’m not dating anyone. All I want is to graduate and get out of here. I don’t need anyone but myself.”

“Ah. He played you,” Max said.