I Bet You(2)

He hates me.

I come to a stop at their table, my hand going to my hip like it does whenever he’s near.

Our eyes meet and I hold my ground, not breaking our stare. I’ll admit he’s a magnificent male, all six feet, four inches of him. With his tousled mix of brown and blond hair, ocean-colored eyes, and sensuous full lips, he’s the kind of gorgeous that makes you stop and blink. You might even rub your eyes to make sure he isn’t some sort of sexy devil/angel.

“Yes?” I break our gaze, and my eyes sweep the table. Everything looks fine. Burgers and fries are mostly gone. Soda glasses are full. “Was there a problem with your check?”

Ryker’s lips curl up. “No. We have a proposition for you.”

Proposition?

My eyes narrow, and I’d like to tell him to suck it, but I keep my voice polite and sweet. Every Southern girl knows how to do this because our mamas taught us. “If it doesn’t have anything to do with your service here, I’m not interested. Thank you.”

One of the jersey chasers giggles. A buxom brunette with a ton of smoky eyeshadow—his usual type—she’s sitting next to him and has her hot pink manicured hand curled around his arm. “But it’s Ryker,” she says in a high-pitched voice. “Don’t you want to know what he wants?”

He wants to annoy me. It’s obvious. I straighten my black cat-eye glasses. “Nope.”

“But why not?” Her face is perplexed.

Bless her heart.

I sigh and break it down for her. I’ve been nice long enough. “A guy who calls me over by yelling gar?on, which means ‘boy’ by the way, and then has a proposition for me…yeah, no. I have better things to do. Now, if you’ll excuse me—”

“Wait. Don’t run off,” Ryker says, leaning forward on the table and easing the girl away from him. She points a pout his way, but his eyes are on me. “It’s just a bet.”

“I see. How…quaint.” The football team is notorious for their betting shenanigans leading up to homecoming.

“All in good fun,” he says, spreading his hands. “It’s a tradition among the players. We even have a trophy that’s been passed down since Waylon first got a football team. It’s mostly the offense against the defense, but sometimes we do individual bets just to mix it up—which is why I called you over.”

I give him a short nod and a tight smile. “I get it, but I have actual work to do, you know.”

His eyes flick to where I was sitting at the bar. “You didn’t look busy to me.”

“I didn’t know you were keeping tabs on me,” I say, stiffening.

“I wasn’t.”

“Then how do you know I’m not busy?”

“I assumed.”

I smirk. “Well, we all know what assuming does.”

“You were sitting at the bar writing in a notebook.”

My eyes flare. Sweet baby Jesus, if he only knew. “You’re very observant. Is there something about me that interests you?”

He shrugs those impossibly broad shoulders. “Maybe I need more soda.”

I look at his glass. “You don’t.”

“Maybe I need—”

Blaze, one of the players who’s been watching our back and forth with wide eyes, interrupts him. “Um, this is getting weird. Can we get back to the bet?”

Ryker clears his throat, his thick and surprisingly dark lashes closing for a second as if he’s shielding his expression. “Of course. Back to the nitty-gritty. The guys and I have been talking and were wondering if you’d want to earn a quick forty bucks.” That infuriating eyebrow arches up. “Easy money.”

I pause. Money does come in handy, especially when you hold down two jobs and go to school fulltime. Easy bets are also hard to resist. My roomie, Charisma, and I do them all the time, mostly to spur each other on. Last week I bet her she couldn’t get an A on her first astronomy quiz, and she managed to pull one out. Her prize from me was a homemade breakfast complete with buttermilk biscuits and sausage gravy.

I exhale and look around at the faces. Besides the jersey chasers in between each player, I take in Archer, Blaze, and Dillon, all of them seniors and star players. I know Blaze best of all, a rather rambunctious puppy dog type of guy I tutored last year in algebra.

As a whole, they seem harmless enough, and I relax a little, pulling a raspberry lollipop out of my apron, taking the wrapper off, and sticking it in my mouth. They help me think. It’s also a nervous reflex.

Ryker’s aquamarine blue eyes are riveted on me.

“What’s the bet?” I say, popping the sucker out and considering him.

He tilts his head toward the center of the table where someone has placed a bottle of ketchup front and center. “We bet you can’t open that. Ten bucks from each of the players if you can.”

Ha. I maintain a poker face, fighting back my grin. I open stubborn ketchup bottles on the regular. An hour ago, I managed to get a pesky jar of pickles open for our manager—who’s a man.

“And if I can’t?” Our eyes meet across the table, and I get a zip of heat from the intensity of his gaze.

“Then dessert is on you.” He smirks. “I’ll put my order in now: key lime pie.”

He. Is. So. Freaking. Cocky.