Jock Row (Jock Hard #1)(46)

“No you can’t.”

“Yes I fucking can—get your mind out of the gutter.”

My blush is furious, unattractively darkening my collarbone.

“Never have I ever flashed a bartender for a free drink at the bar.”

Nothing.

“Really Rowdy? You’ve never flashed a bartender?”

“What would I flash them, my rod?”

“Uh, or your abs.” I laugh.

“If you were a bartender, would it work if I flashed my abs at you?”

Uh, yes. “I’d have to see them first to make that judgment call. You might have a dad bod under that shirt for all I know.”

“Don’t insult me. My abs are chiseled from the hardest rock.”

My heart beats erratically as I play it cool, wanting to see his stomach, but worried I’ll embarrass myself if I do. “If you say so.”

He leans forward. “Want me to show you? After all, I have seen your ass.”

“Do you think my ass is a fair trade for your abs?”

“I’d say it’s even—you have some pretty sweet cheeks on you.”

I tilt my head, tripping over my tongue. “I…I-I…”

“You wanna see?” He’s so blatantly fishing, wanting to impress me, that I give in—no hardship there.

“Yes.”

He straightens on the couch, setting his wine on my coffee table, rising to his knees. Grips the hem of his shirt and—

“This feels weird.” He lets the shirt fall.

“Why?

“Now I feel like I’m showing off.”

“You’re not showing off—this is for scientific research, remember? The bartenders?

“Good point!”

His charcoal gray tee rises again, inch by inch, fisted by his tan hand. Bit by bit he exposes his chiseled abdomen, the hard muscles constricting as he balances on the couch, foot secured to the floor.

“If I was a bartender,” I say slowly, accidentally chugging some of my wine, “I’d totally give you free drinks if you flashed me those abs.”

They’re absolutely ridiculous. As intimidating as he is.

Satisfied, he plops his ass back down on the couch.

“Never have I everrr…” I glance around the room for inspiration. “Woken up in a room I didn’t recognize.”

We stare at each other, defying the other to take a drink.

Neither of us does.

Rowdy’s pouty lips part. “Never have I ever asked for extra credit from a teacher.”

My chin tips up and I drink. “You already knew the answer to that one, you jockhole. That wasn’t fair.”

He ignores me, charging forward. “Never have I ever gotten kicked out of a house party.”

I narrow my eyes.

“I see what you’re doing, trying to get me tipsy.”

I drink, smirking. Two can play this game.

“Never have I ever slept with someone without knowing their last name.”

I grin when he drinks from his red cup, green eyes boring holes into me from above the rim.

“Never have I ever gotten in the way of my friends hooking up.” He smirks back.

I’m going to kill him.

Drink.

The chilled wine goes down smooth, loosens the lazy smile I now have directed at him, letting myself learn the little nuances about him.

He’s handsome, but not in a classical way. Not like some guys—some athletes—who are chiseled and perfect and pretty. The ones we see in magazines, digitally enhanced to flawlessness. Straight noses and arresting eyes, landscaped—or manscaped or whatever—within an inch of their lives to garner attention.

Sterling is none of these things.

He has scars and flaws, with freckles across the bridge of his nose that contradict how big and masculine he is. Imposing. Tall and boxy and—

“Scarlett?”

“Hmm?” I’m lost in my thoughts, the alcohol not doing me any favors.

“Never have I ever called someone out at their own party for being a lying sack of shit.”

I grab a pillow to wallop him with it. “Would you stop that!”

His smile is all innocence. “Stop what?”

“Stop asking questions you already know the answer to. Are you trying to get me drunk?”

“You’re doing the same thing I am!” His voice rises an adorable octave. “Maybe you’re trying to get me drunk.”

“Pfft, like you’d hate that.”

“No, I wouldn’t hate it.”

There is no doubt about it: we are trying to get each other drunk.

Naughty, naughty.

I can’t even look at his face when I ask, “What motivation could I possibly have to get you drunk?”

“To take advantage of me?” He sounds hopeful.

“In your dreams, pal.” I’m a pretty little liar.

“Accurate.” The neutral expression on his face gives nothing away. “Every damn night, as a matter of fact.”

I shake my head; he’s got me all tied up in knots, and I laugh it away to keep the mood from getting any more weirdly wonderful. God I’m getting drunk…that didn’t even make sense…

“All right, I’ll stop asking you questions I already know the answer to if you agree to do the same. Besides, it’s not as fun.”