Jock Row (Jock Hard #1)(33)

“Oh.” She laughs nervously, miming smacking a palm to her forehead. “Duh.”

God she’s adorably clueless.

“Here, let me take your bag.” I reach for it. “I’ll walk you home.”

“No, no! Gosh, you don’t have to carry it,” she demurs.

I grab her tote, ending whatever other argument or protests are about to come out of her gorgeous mouth, giving her hip a little bump in the process to nudge her along.

“Never have I ever—”

Scarlett’s groan interrupts me, and now that her hands are free, she throws them in the air,. “Oh lord, here we go.”

I glance down at her. “What? Would you rather play something else?”

“We can’t play Never Have I Ever—we don’t have anything to chug down if we lose.”

“But we have brownies.” I hold up her bag containing the tub of desserts, giving it a shake, totally willing to sacrifice the lot of them on our walk back to her place.

“If I eat all those chocolate brownies, I will barf.”

“Are you that confident you’re going to have to eat them?”

“With the questions you like to ask? Definitely.”

“It’s not that many blocks. You’ll live.” Once we fall into line, I dig into her bag to retrieve the container, our steps in sync. “Never have I ever read anyone’s diary.

“Ugh, dammit Rowdy!”

I pop the top so Scarlett can retrieve a small piece from the plastic container and pop it in her mouth. Chew and swallow.

“Whose diary?” I want to know.

“My older sister’s when we were younger. She had some damn good stuff in it, too, like the first time she got felt up by a guy, she detailed the entire experience and I got to read about it.”

“You sneaky little shit.”

Scarlett shrugs. “It’s not like she hid it—kept it on her bookshelf along with her other junk. But honestly, I was notorious for going through her stuff. It was all just too good to keep my hands off of.” She sighs, and then smirks. “Have you ever been slapped across the face?”

I hesitate then bite off a chunk of chewy, moist brownie. “Yes.” A smug grin spreads across her mouth, and it makes me scowl. “You don’t have to be self-righteous about it, smartass. I wasn’t slapped by a pissed-off girl.”

“Stop it right now. You’re telling me you were slapped by a guy?” Her skepticism is spread across her entire face.

“Yup. Bitch-slapped by a dude, if you want to get technical.”

“Bet this is a good story.” She giggles, dancing alongside me, her black Chucks hopping on the pavement. “Are you going to tell me about it?”

It’s not a story I’ll likely ever forget. “I was out with a few guys my freshman year, and I had this friend on the team who was gay, right? Well, we went out during orientation week, and he’d been seeing this guy—real theatrical type—who thought Landon was having an affair or cheating on him or whatever because he’d been practicing so much. Spending way too much time with the team, you know?” I pause for dramatic effect. “Landon’s boyfriend finds us out one night playing pool after Landon had told him he was lifting. Dude taps me on the shoulder and slaps me as I turn around. It was one of those limp-armed hits though, not a full-on slap, and he was terrified I’d hit him back.”

“Did he clutch his hand to his chest?”

“Totally. Gasped too.”

“Did they get into a fight after that?”

“Nah, I think they probably went home and screwed.” I palm another brownie from the container, stuffing it into my mouth. “God, these things are like crack.”

“I like to bake.” Scarlett stares straight ahead, pretending to be interested in the scenery, but I catch a glimpse of her smile when I call her brownies crack, see when she bites down on her lower lip.

“Have you ever had pot brownies?” She sounds so scandalized just asking the question that I chuckle.

“No. Have you?”

“No!” comes her indignant reply. “Of course not.”

“Have you ever wanted to?”

“No! Would you want to?”

My lip curls arrogantly. “Have you seen this body Scarlett? This body is a temple—we don’t wear it down, we build it up.” I invite her to ogle, wishing she could see more of my body. “Feel free to worship at the shrine.”

I watch as her gaze flickers down my torso, to my feet, then back up to my face. It’s too dark to tell if she’s blushing, but I bet a few hundo that she is.

Grinning, I change the subject. “Would you rather eat a meal or help cook it?”

“Oh, we’re doing that now? Playing Would You Rather?”

“Are you brave enough? It could get dicey.”

“Dicey—my dad says that.” She giggles. “I’d rather have someone cook me a meal, but I’d rather bake for someone else.”

I ignore the dad comment. “Would you rather not shower for a week or not brush your teeth?”

“That’s gross.”

“No it’s not. I can go a few days without showering, easy.”

She considers this. “Yeah, I suppose you’re right. That’s the reason dry shampoo was invented—now they just need to make dry shampoo for my body.”