Blind Side(10)

I’d never seen Giana so frazzled, and she hastily snapped her laptop shut and tucked it into her messenger bag. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

But I just smiled and leaned over the table, elbows on the cool wood as my chest squeezed with an entirely different kind of emotion than the one that had been occupying the space for weeks now. It was excitement, albeit muted, but that part of me that loved to help others thawed like a frozen tree shaking off the last icicles of the winter.

And underneath that thawing ice was a flutter of hope as fresh as spring, an idea sprouting in my mind like a flower.

Or perhaps a weed.

“I can help you.”

“Help me?”

A curl fell over her left eye before she brushed it away, and when I leaned in even closer, she looked down at my chest, pulling her hands into her lap like she was afraid they’d brush mine if she left them on the table.

“Go out with me.”

Her eyes snapped wide at that, locking on mine before that snort-laugh thing bubbled out of her again.

“Or at least, pretend to go out with me.”

That made her laugh even harder. But when I didn’t laugh with her, she paled, one hand holding onto the edge of the table as the other came to her forehead. “I think I’m going to pass out.”

“Please don’t. It would be an even rougher start to our journey of making Shawn Stetson your boyfriend.”

And of me getting Maliyah back.





Giana



“You’re insane.”

“Insanely genius,” Clay argued, resting his elbows on the table between us as he leaned toward me even more. It was almost comical, how massive his arms were compared to the tiny table, which wobbled precariously on its thin legs as it took his weight.

“I… it’s just… absurd.”

I pushed my glasses up the bridge of my nose, cold fingertips brushing my hot cheeks as I uncrossed my legs just to cross them the other way. I then crossed my arms over my chest, all body language pointing to how uncomfortable I was with this conversation and the proposal in it.

I was here to coach Clay Johnson how to be better with the media after his breakup — which had thus far been agonizing not only for him, but for the entire team.

I was not here for him to tease me about my crush on Shawn Stetson, or to con me into some ridiculous fake relationship to get his attention.

The fact that he’d even picked up on my crush was embarrassing enough. Here I thought I’d always been good at hiding it — mostly because, to Shawn, at least, I was invisible. Ever since the first time I heard him play last semester, I’d all but stalked him, listening to him play on campus any time I had the chance.

I blamed my fascination with him on one of my favorite books — Thoughtless.

S.C. Stephens made me fall in love with Kellan Kyle, and when I’d finished that book and been completely lost, in the worst book funk of my life, unable to function… I’d stumbled into Rum & Roasters.

And there he was, Shawn Stetson, broody and mysterious and dark and handsome.

“Look, G,” Clay said.

“Giana,” I corrected.

“Would you rather I call you Kitten again?”

My eyes were mere slits as he smirked at his own cute joke.

“I’m a guy, and as a guy, I know what guys want. At least — most, straight, sane guys. And I’m telling you. That guy?” He pointed a finger at where Shawn was playing his set on stage, the bar dim in comparison to where a soft spotlight illuminated him. “He wants a woman of mystery, one who can be his muse, who will be a little hard to get, a little out of his league.”

My eyes nearly bulged out of my skull before I covered Clay’s gargantuan finger with both my hands and shoved it down, quickly glancing at Shawn to make sure he hadn’t seen.

“I can have him eating out of the palm of your hand by Thanksgiving.”

My cheeks were so hot, I was worried they’d singe my hair as it fell over my face. “What makes you think I’d want that?”

Clay just cocked a brow.

Okay, so I’m about as easy to read as a billboard right now.

I chewed the inside of my lip, glancing at Shawn and then back at Clay before I lowered my voice to a whisper. “He barely knows I exist.”

“Another thing I can help with,” he said, sweeping a large hand over himself. “Do you think anyone on this campus could ignore the girl who has Clay Johnson’s attention?”

I rolled my eyes at the cocky insinuation, but couldn’t argue against his point.

It was true.

That massive hunk of muscle and those piercing green eyes had been off the market since Clay walked onto North Boston University’s campus — much to every girl’s dismay. And while he’d been a miserable prick since he and Maliyah broke up, the groupies that followed the team around like flies were begging for even a taste of his affection.

Still…

“He’s a musician,” I pointed out, folding my arms. “He probably couldn’t care less about football.”

And the universe loved to play jokes on me, because at that exact moment, Shawn finished the song he’d been playing, and after strumming his guitar a few times, he spoke right into the mic and said, “Ladies and gentlemen, we have a celebrity here with us tonight. Clay Johnson, NBU’s best safety and a shoe-in for the NFL. Make sure to get your autographs while you can.”