Jock Row (Jock Hard #1)(40)

Me: Have you had anything to drink?

Scarlett: No, right now I’m still sober-ish

Scarlett: Okay, fine—I’ve had one glass of wine, but I’m definitely not drunk.

Scarlett: How long have you been outside waiting for me?

Me: I don’t know, a few minutes.

Scarlett: Rowdy, it’s after eleven…

Me: Fine. I’ve been waiting an hour and change.

An hour and forty-two minutes—but who’s keeping track?

Scarlett: Oh god, I’m so sorry!

Me: Don’t apologize, you don’t owe me anything.

But then I add,

Me: You want me to keep waiting for you?

Scarlett: You’d do that?

Me: If you want me to, yeah. I’ll wait for you.

Scarlett: Thank you for checking on me tonight.

Me: Hey wait, what did you have for dinner?

Scarlett: Is it always about food with you? I had soup, salad, and chicken.

Me: Goddammit I’m hungry…

Scarlett: **laughs and laughs** I can’t stay in this bathroom stall all night texting you, my friends will think I climbed out the window to avoid paying the bill.

Me: Brilliant idea. Stay put and I’ll back my truck up to the window. I’ll catch you.

Scarlett: You would not do that…

Me: Try me. I can be wherever you are in ten minutes.

Scarlett: You’re crazy, do you know that?

Yeah. Crazier for you every single fucking day.

Scarlett: How about I have them drop me off at the house instead?

Me: I’ll wait.

Hurry.

I don’t add that last part, instead, staring at my phone for the reply that never comes.

***

I don’t recognize her at first glance.

Dismiss her as another baseball groupie striding up the walkway when she appears, pulling up to the curb in a gray car. Watch when she slides out of the passenger side, one leg at a time, bending at the waist to speak to the driver.

Slams the door and gracefully strides confidently up the sidewalk, hair swishing, fanning out behind her like some goddamn shampoo commercial.

I do a double take.

“Scarlett?”

She raises her hand, clutching a small blue purse in the other. “I made it.”

I stare.

Barely recognize her. I mean—it’s her, of course I recognize her, but…

She looks so fucking different.

Her, but…

More her.

Jesus.

Hips swaying, black skirt swishing beneath the hem of a black dress coat, she approaches the stairs, long tan legs taking the steps one by one, bright blue toenails playing peekaboo in black, open-toe heels.

I straighten. Blink down at her, confused.

“Did you get a spray tan?” I blurt out, fucking up my greeting. Couldn’t the first words out of my mouth been ‘Hello, you look beautiful’?

Scarlett laughs. “Yes, I got a spray tan. I’m so pale.”

One step, then another two.

Four more and she’s all the way to the top.

“What’s with the red lips?” I blurt out again, harsher than I intend. Her mouth is a sexy, glossy red, shining when she grins at me under the light gleaming off the porch. Her teeth look blaring white in contrast.

“What’s with you tonight? You’re so crabby.” She rolls her eyes, tucking her little blue handbag under her armpit. Purses her glossy mouth. “You don’t like the red lips?”

I do. I like them a lot.

And why are her lashes so damn long? Jesus, her eyes look huge. I could watch them flutter at me all damn night.

“How was dinner?”

Another sassy grin, and her white teeth flashing get me kind of excited. “Great. Thanks for waiting on me.”

“I would have come and picked you up.” Should have gone all chivalrous on her, pulled some knight-in-shining-armor bullshit.

She touches my arm, giving my forearm a tap. “We were in the city—I never would have asked you to come that far.”

But I would have; I’d have driven clear across the state to pick her up just to see the look on her face. To see that damn dimple in her pretty, sweet cheek.

She looks so…fucking…

Her brows, which are darker than usual, furrow. “What?”

I blink. “You look…”

I bask in the brilliant sight of her, from her smooth thighs to the curve of her well-shaped calves. It might not sound like the most romantic body part to wax poetic about, but I’m an athlete and notice shit like that, the little things—like how perfect her toes are, peeking out of the front of her heels.

The place where the black belt of her dressy jacket cinches her slender waist.

And her hair?

It’s thick and full, falling in waves, draped over one shoulder, and I’ve never seen it down. It looks soft, sleek, and touchable, and I want to run my fingers through it.

“Why are you looking at me like that—stop being weird.”

Am I being weird? I do a better job schooling my expression.

Inhale a deep breath and attempt not to be a fuckwit.

“You look really pretty, that’s all I wanted to say. I’m not trying to be weird. And, uh, I have something for you.”

Her delicate arched brows go up. “You do?