Unbreak My Heart (Rough Riders Legacy #1)(33)

I narrowed my eyes at him. Did he intend for that to have a double meaning?

“Try it. If it sucks we’ll stop. Then you can watch me draining three pointers and dunking in an effort to impress you.”

“I don’t have the right shoes.”

He glanced at my flip-flops and shrugged. “We’re not playing one-on-one. It’s stand and shoot. You’ll be fine.”

“Boone, I don’t—”

He loomed over me. “Work with me here. There has to be something that’d get you out on that court.”

My hormones launched a mutiny and seized control of my mouth. “You could take off your shirt.”

He blinked at me in utter surprise. Then he said, “Done. Let’s go.”

On the court, he grabbed the edges of his shirt and slowly lifted up, exposing his flat abdomen, then that fan-f*cking-tastic chest. As he faced me, he granted me a look that ignited a slow curl of heat in my chest and the flames licked lower…and lower.

“Sierra.” He drew my name out in a honey-coated rasp. “Dial it back.”

Shit. I closed my eyes. I shouldn’t have asked him to take off his shirt.

Gee. Do you think?

“Pay attention to how I’m shooting.”

“Fine. Whatever.”

Thud thud thud echoed off the cement as Boone dribbled. Then he pivoted and launched the ball at the hoop.

Swish. He made it.

Afterward, he sauntered over to me. “Your turn. Do exactly what I did.”

“Including the weird pivot?”

“Including that.”

I didn’t dribble the ball. I carried it to the place where he’d stood.

“Gotta dribble.”

Mine was a double dribble for sure. Then I pivoted and threw the ball over my head at the basket.

It hit the side of the house.

Boone raised both eyebrows. “Interesting technique.”

“Thank you. Where’d you learn yours?” He didn’t play sports in high school. But that didn’t mean he didn’t have the skills to play. Working two jobs had left him little time for normal teenage pursuits.

“Army. Ends up being a bunch of downtime and there’s always a basketball court. The black guys loved showing us up. Except…they didn’t all of the time.” He pointed at me. “You missed so you have an H. My turn.”

“I think those rules suck.”

“What do you suggest?”

“Uh, that we don’t play basketball?”

He laughed. “Nice try.” He hustled to center court. “Watch closely.”

How could I not? He had his damn shirt off. I could spend all day drooling over his chest. All day, and night, and part of the next day.

Dribble, dribble, dribble. Jump.

Swish.

Dammit.

I stormed to the middle. “Gimme the ball.”

“Hey, not so fast.” He dropped the ball between his feet, then he crouched down. “This is supposed to be fun. We used to have fun together, remember?”

“Because that wasn’t organized fun.”

“Really. The McKay/West project we worked on for three f*cking months wasn’t…organized?”

I couldn’t help but smile at him. Then I poked him in the chest. “Stop ruining my example with logic.”

“Do you really want to quit playing?”

“What else would we do?”

His gaze slid over me. “I have a suggestion, but I guarantee it’ll peg the intensity meter.”

“I might choose that over this.”

“Jesus. Don’t get my hopes up, McKay.” He moved to stand behind me. “Maybe you just need a few pointers.”

Then his arms came around me, but he held the ball out in front of me. “Watch my hand position. Up and out.”

“Always? For the best result?”

“I don’t get what you mean.”

“Variables. Isn’t that a thing?”

“You mean, like a field condition?”

God. Stop with that sexy rasp in my ear.

“How about we just concentrate on you making this one shot?”

My breathing turned choppy. He had to feel the increased movement of my chest rising and falling with the way my back was pressed against him.

“Power comes from here.” He squeezed my arms with his. “Tighten your core, that’ll keep you stable.”

Stable. I was starting to come unhinged. And the core part of me that tightened wasn’t my damn abs.

“Hold the ball. Dribble a couple of times and then shoot.”

Boone stepped back and I almost crumpled into a pile. The man was such a powerful force. Once again the universe proved the joke was on me. I’d asked him to tone down the intensity. But this playful, helpful, goddamn sweet side? A hundred times worse. As I stood there, clutching a ball, I understood that I had no defense against this man. None. A good offense wasn’t even a good defense.

“Concentrate, Sierra. You can do this,” he said in a “yay team!” pep rally kind of voice that I never in a million years imagined I’d hear from Brooding Boone West.

That was the last straw.

I whirled around and whipped the ball at him. “Who are you?”