Block Shot (Hoops #2)(54)

“Top down?” I ask, glancing at the carefully coiffed hair she wanted to preserve on the ride here.

“Top down,” she confirms, tugging at the pins until her hair tumbles around her shoulders and whips behind her in the wind. She glances over at me, her wide smile bright in the moonlight. “This feels fantastic.”

Me and Banner finally alone.

“Yup,” I agree. “Fantastic.”





16





Banner





I have to be careful.

I’ve done a good job concealing how Jared affects me. He’s a shark, and he’s been circling me all night. Any sign of weakness would be like blood in the water. He’d devour me whole.

But ever since Bent told me the truth, confirmed what Jared said years ago, two tiny insidious words keep worming through my brain.

What if . . .

What if Prescott hadn’t pulled his trick? What if he and his pride of lions had never interrupted us? What if I hadn’t called the cops? What if I’d believed Jared? We were young, ambitious, and had things we wanted to do. Who knows if a relationship between us could have survived the distance, our immaturity. My insecurities. His ruthless single-mindedness. Things happen the way they do for a reason. Things probably happened exactly as they should have, but sitting beside the man whom I’ve always had trouble resisting, those two words taunt me.

What if . . . the most dangerous words in the English language. Hell, in every language I speak.

On the ride home, I’m quiet, resisting his every attempt to talk. I’m contemplating the shadows of mountains and the shimmer of water in the dark. The cool air lifts my hair away from my neck. I fight the intoxicating effects of champagne lemonade traveling through my blood. I need to be alert. On guard. I’m so absorbed in ignoring the pull of Jared beside me that at first I don’t notice we’ve pulled off.

“Where are we going?” I ask, looking at him for the first time since we left the Carter’s estate.

“So you do remember I’m here,” he says lightly, sarcasm in his voice.

“Of course. I was . . .” I take in our surroundings, the road we’re traveling down. “Where are we going?”

He pulls onto a sprawling yard with a few cars parked here and there. A huge screen looms over the patch of grass.

“A drive-in?” I ask, panic stealing all my cool points.

Words like “necking” and “making out” come to mind as soon as I think drive-in. He kills the engine and faces me, illuminated by the moon and the screen.

“It’s not that late. You’ll have plenty of time to sleep.”

“No, I won’t, and we don’t know what’s playing,” I say. “We may not even want to see this movie.”

“It’s the experience that counts,” he says, his expression, the tone of his voice, everything about him persuading, urging. “What can it hurt?”

I’m formulating my argument to convince him, since that seems to be the only thing he understands, when a girl—maybe seventeen—strolls up to the car.

“Evening. I’m Sally,” she says and fishes a notepad from her pocket and a pencil from behind her ear. “What can I get you tonight?”

“We’re not staying,” I say at the same time Jared says, “Popcorn.”

She darts a confused look between us. “You want butter on that popcorn?”

“Yeah,” Jared answers, paying in cash. ”And two vanilla cokes.”

She walks away and I batten down my hatches, preparing for the fight ahead.

“This whole thing is incredibly presumptuous,” I say, irritation coloring my words. “Bringing me here without my permission. Ordering Vanilla Coke, which I’ve never had—”

“You’ll love it.”

“And buttered popcorn, which I don’t have enough points left for.”

“Points?” Dark blond brows pucker. “What do you mean points?”

Growing up overweight, struggling with it for so many years, I didn’t realize how much shame I held around food. In public, I’d imagine the chiding conversations thin people were having about what I’d ordered. I conjured up their secret dismay that I selected the burger when there was a perfectly good garden salad on the menu. I was self-conscious about my portions, always concerned I’d gotten so much people would say, “Ah, that’s why.” I didn’t want people to think about food and me in the same sentence because then they would “remember” I was overweight. To talk about dieting with someone draws attention to “my problem.” To talk about it with Jared, considering our unique, humiliating past, would have been nearly impossible.

But that was then. This is now. This is me now.

“Weight Watchers,” I say. “We assign points to food, and you’re allowed only so many points each day. I don’t think I have enough for buttered popcorn.”

“Oh. I get that.” His expression doesn’t change, but he drapes an arm along the back of my seat. “You look great, Banner.”

Before I can awkwardly thank him, he goes on.

“But you’ve always looked great to me,” he says, mesmerizing me with the forthright admiration in his eyes. “I can tell you’re happier now with how you look, so that’s important, but you’ve always been beautiful to me. I hope you know that.”