Jock Row (Jock Hard #1)(22)

He leans against the house, a cocky lift to his lips. “You consider me a challenge?”

“No, I consider getting inside the house a challenge.”

“Is that the only reason you keep coming back?”

It’s cold, and we’re both breathing hard, our breaths mingling in gray swirls, shoulders knocking every few footsteps.

“What other reason would I have?”

I hold my breath, waiting for him to reply.

When he doesn’t, I make a little humming sound, aware that each beat of my traitorous heart is pounding in my chest, my throat.

“I’m not a mind reader, Scarlett—if there’s another reason you come here every Friday night, you’ll have to spell it out for me.”

We size each other up, like two gunslingers reaching for their six-shooters, neither willing to bend. I don’t know what he wants me to say, and I refuse to be the first one to admit to…whatever this is I’m feeling.

It’s way too soon.

It’s strangely silent then, the stereo momentarily cutting off inside the house. Voices die down. The indelicate sound of Rowdy’s snarling stomach breaks the spell of our stare-down.

Seriously, does this guy not eat enough during dinner?

“You know what I have for you?”

“There are about five different ways I could answer that.” He eyes my bag. “But please tell me you brought food.”

If I was a peacock, I’d be fluffing my brilliant feathers about now with what I’m about to present to him.

“Not only did I bring food, I brought the good stuff.” I unzip my tote, glancing up at him coyly. “Any guesses?”

“Spaghetti and meatballs?”

I glare at him. “Are you trying to make me gag?”

“I get delirious when I’m hungry—you already know this.”

“When aren’t you hungry?”

“Never not hungry, but I’m not always hungry for food.”

Startled, my mouth falls open and I gape at him like a fool;

it’s the first innuendo he’s made toward me, and I hardly know what to do with it.

“O-Out of curiosity,” I stammer, “are you planning on waiting outside for me every Friday?”

“Only until you can come inside that house.”

“And when will that be?”

He shrugs. “Don’t know.”

“Hmm.” I finger the plastic utensils inside my bag. “What if I decide not to come? How long would you be willing to wait for me to show up?”

“Five minutes.”

“Liar. Try again or I’m not showing you what’s in here.”

“I don’t know, Scarlett—eight minutes.”

My brows rise doubtfully at how specific the time is, and he rolls those big, beautiful green eyes at me.

“Fine. I’d wait an hour.” Pause. “Maybe a little longer if I knew for sure you were going to show up.”

He’d wait an hour for me? That’s an eternity in college guy years.

Satisfied, I dig out two white cardboard containers of Chinese takeout, still piping hot, fresh from the joint down the road. I had it delivered right before leaving the house, the rice and chicken and noodles heating my hip on the walk over.

If Tessa or Cameron noticed the smell, neither of them mentioned it.

Rowdy’s eyes damn near bug out of his skull he’s so excited.

“You have got to be shitting me. Are you serious? Scarlett, you’re fucking awesome.”

I blush beneath my winter jacket, smiling inside the collar, yet I hold the carton of Asian noodles hostage, out of his reach. “You can have this when you tell me how you knew I’d be here tonight.”

He’s desperate, so he folds like a house of cards in a soft breeze. “I sat next to the window like a damn dog waiting for its owner to come home. Now gimme.”

I removed my mittens before digging in my bag of tricks, so our fingers touch when I hand him the food, eyes locking before I pull away, brushing away an invisible lock of hair against my cheek.

“Staring out the window like a goddamn puppy.” He shoves a forkful into his mouth, grumbling.

“Good boy.” I reach over and pat him on the shoulder. “I hope you like General Tso’s chicken. I wasn’t sure so I just brought two of my favorites.”

“I’d eat anything, including the ass out of a dead skunk—this is perfection.”

This whole night is perfection, and if it was something other than what it is, tonight would have been the perfect date.

We eat in silence as I mull over what the ass of a dead skunk might taste like, and where the hell he comes up with his analogies, and how he had the balls to eat meatballs out of a dumpster.

“Oh shit!” he laments. “I’m the worst host.”

Rowdy stands, dragging the cooler closer to the stairs, patting the top with the palm of his hand. Cajoling. “Here, have a seat.”

I plop down, container in my lap, steam rising into the night air, forking the noodles into my mouth.

“What’s that you’re eating?” He’s staring rudely into my container, making love to it with his wanton gaze.

“Shrimp lo mein.”

Rowdy licks his lips, interested. “Would it be uncouth of me to suggest a trade?”