Block Shot (Hoops #2)(50)

“I’m a gentleman,” I remind her. “I’m supposed to open the door for you.”

“I can open my own doors. Have been for a long time.”

“You’re too liberated for simple good manners? To accept kindness?”

“When was the last time you were kind?” she huffs with a laugh.

“You got me there,” I admit with a chuckle.

“I thought so.”

“You look beautiful,” I tell her, dropping all pretense of banter, meeting her eyes frankly. I step closer, sandwiching her between my body and the car, reaching behind her for the handle so my arm brushes her bare skin. I smell her hair and her perfume and her. My gaze trickles over her, savors her in centimeters, starting at the hair caught up, soft tendrils escaping and curling around her hairline and at her neck, taking in all the dips and swells on the way to her feet in red open-toed high-heeled sandals.

I reach up to toy with her gold hoop earrings. “I like these.”

“Thank you. My boyfriend gave them to me,” she says pointedly.

I bite back a grin. That’s so cute. She thinks I give a fuck about her boyfriend. She thinks she can put me off by pulling away from my touch, reminding me about what’s his name. She doesn’t realize yet that I don’t care. She’ll soon see. Maybe even tonight.

I click the door unlocked and step back so she can get in. At the wheel, I check the mirrors and hover my finger over the button to peel the roof back.

“Roof up or down?”

“My hair.” She pats the dark strands held perfectly in place. “Up going. Down on the way back.”

“Up it is.” I take over and fiddle with the system. “Driver is DJ.”

“No.” She groans and flops her head back. “How long is this drive again?”

“I have great taste in music.” I spare an offended glance from the road. “We’ll every other it, but I go first.”

“Of course, you will,” she mutters under her breath. “Always do.”

“What was that?” I ask, enjoying myself.

“Nothing.” She creases her face with a quick fake grin. “You’re the driver.”

“That’s what I thought you said.” I cue up my first song: “Get Lucky” by Daft Punk and Pharrell.

Her head bops and she pats her thighs.

“So you like it?” I ask. “‘Jared, you have great taste in music’ will suffice in lieu of a formal apology.”

“One song does not great taste make.” She laughs, searching Spotify on my phone for the next song. “Oooh. I’ve got a good one.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.”

“I think we should each get one judgment-free song.”

“What? You can choose a crap song and I don’t get to laugh at you?” I shake my head. “I would never miss an opportunity to demean your choices.”

“I’m well aware,” she says wryly. “But it also means you get a judgment-free song,”

“I don’t like crap music, so I don’t need a bye.”

“Everyone needs a freebie sometimes. We should all get one shitty choice.”

“I never would have thought that you’d want a shitty choice.”

“I’m not perfect, Jared.”

Pretty close.

I don’t say it because her knowing how much I’m into her works against my end game. If she heard a warning shot like that, she’d run in the other direction. I need her off guard, taken aback. Unprepared. By the time she realizes I’m pursuing her, I want her begging to be caught.

It’s her turn, and she chooses one of my favorite songs of all time. I don’t give any indication that I love “Crazy” by Gnarls Barkley.

“Oh, come on, Foster.” She points at me, laughing and shaking her head. “I know you love this song.”

“It’s alright,” I deadpan. Shrug.

“Hmmm.” She folds her arms over her chest, pushing her breasts up and almost distracting me from the road, but . . . discipline. “This was the top song on your study playlist senior year.”

Ah, now we’re getting somewhere. She remembers my details, too.

“Was it?” I feign ignorance like the great feign-er I am. “I don’t even remember that. How would you remember that?”

“I don’t know.” She shrugs smooth bare shoulders and scrolls through the phone for her next choice. “Just popped in my head for whatever reason.”

“Ahhh. The way I remembered your dryer sheets?” I ask innocently. “Just popped in my head, too.”

Silence. She sits back to enjoy the Pacific bordering the road. I opted to take PCH, which is a little longer drive, but Banner in the car for more time is no hardship. Gives her something to look at while she regroups. We go back and forth on songs for the couple of hours in the car. I deliberately avoid shop talk, not wanting to remind her that I’m supposed to be the opposition.

“Okay, here’s my judgment-free pick,” she says after a while, giving me wide eyes and twitching lips. “Don’t hate on my jam.”

“You calling it ‘your jam’ already has my Hatorade out.”

“And you using the word Hatorade has mine out.”