Jock Row (Jock Hard #1)(30)

Six foot two inches of sweet, homegrown Florida citrus.

Mmm mmm mmm.

“I have a serious question—this is for your psych eval.”

I nod, fiddling with my mittens, stomach doing a slow roll. “Okay.”

“If you suddenly found out your internal monologue from the last hour was made audible, how screwed would you be?”

So freaking screwed. “On a scale of one to ten?”

“Sure,” he draws out, relaxing his chin in the palm of his hand—the one he has perched against the seatback of the swing.

“Um, maybe a…” Twelve. “I don’t know, five?”

I hold his stare, unblinking. Unflinching.

His eyes narrow. “Are you lying?”

I force my mouth into a straight line. It betrays me. “Pfft, no.”

“Yes you are.” His grin is as lazy as his posture.

“I guess you’ll never know, will you?”

He rolls his eyes at me with a grin, and it’s positively endearing. “When’s the last time you had an indecent thought?”

Three minutes ago. “I can’t remember.”

Rowdy shakes his head because he knows I’m full of shit. I smile, big and toothy and fake. “What about you?”

“Guess you’ll never know, will you,” he deadpans, parroting me.

Dammit!

“Just tell me. Please?” I bat my lashes, hoping it looks pretty and not like I have a bug caught in my eye.

“Last indecent thought?” He rubs the scruff on his chin. “’Bout half an hour ago.”

What were we doing thirty minutes ago? “When we were eating?”

“Yes, Scarlett—you’re so unbelievably sexy when you inhale noodles.” Rowdy’s lips pucker and he sharply inhales, impersonating my noodle suckage, the sound it makes, and the sour look on my face when I eat them.

I cock my head, tapping my chin with the tip of my forefinger. “Why, Rowdy Wade, I was going to say the same thing about the way you eat chicken. Nom nom nom.”

I smack my lips like Cookie Monster then tip my head back, pantomiming the way he dumped the carton into his mouth.

“You’re so goddamn cute right now.” He laughs.

I was just going to say the same thing about you.

I cast my eyes downward, kicking at the ground, afraid to give myself away. “You’re just saying that because you like food.”

His hesitation is long. “Sure I am.”

I lift my head. “Was that you flirting with me?”

“Do you think I’m flirting with you?”

“Would you stop doing that? Answering questions with questions? The Sigmund Freud routine is getting stale.” Although, it does make me wonder… “Are you trying to reverse-psychology me into flirting with you?”

“No—but dang, why haven’t I thought of that? I’m going to keep that idea in my back pocket.”

“You do that, slip it right into that back pocket of yours.”

A few people drift out of the house, screen door banging against the frame with a clatter. I slip my cell out of my coat, waking it to check the time.

Nearly midnight. Holy crap.

I stop swinging. Stretch. “I really should get going.”

“Yeah, I should too.” Rowdy rises with me, stuffing those big paws into the deep pockets of his jacket. “It was really fucking cool that you brought food tonight. I appreciate it.”

“No problem.”

“You need a ride, or…”

“No, I’m good. It’s not far.” I pull at my knit hat, securing it over my ears. “You should probably, you know, make sure everything is copacetic inside.”

“All right then.” Both of us are hedging, shuffling our feet. “Night, Scarlett.” He hesitates. “See you next week?”

I bury my chin inside my coat, bury the fact that I’m grinning. “We’ll see.”

We both know I’ll be here.





FOURTH FRIDAY


“The Friday Where I Put Moist Things in my Mouth.”





Rowdy


The first female voice drifts down the street at a high volume, and I lean farther over the railing to listen better.

“Did it occur to you that maybe he’s not her type? Why are you nagging at her?”

“Read my lips: You. Are. Insane. That boy is everyone’s type.”

“Not her type? Are you being serious right now? Rowdy Wade is so fucking hot.” That voice is definitely not Scarlett’s. “If he paid me even the slightest bit of attention, I’d get pregnant just by looking at him. I can’t believe you haven’t slept with him.”

“Or,” the first voice continues, “maybe he’s just not that into you?”

“God I loved that movie,” yet another voice cuts in, this one distinctively Scarlett’s. “I bet I’ve seen it seventy times.”

“Look at you. I swear, Scarlett, you wear shit like that on purpose.”

“It’s cold out!”

“Bet Rowdy could keep you warm. Once the clothes come off, it hardly matters what you left the house wearing.”

Jesus Christ, why are they so loud?