Jock Row (Jock Hard #1)(55)

“Getting up that early would kill me.”

“Not an early riser?”

“I’d be lying if I said I was.”

“You get used to it.” Sort of.

We reach Tenth Street, my eyes scanning the road for a curbside parking space. I find one, paralleling park the truck like a goddamn professional driver.

I don’t have time to make it around to Scarlett’s side of the truck; she hops out and onto the sidewalk before I can unbuckle myself, already waiting on the curb when I slide myself out.

Looking both ways, it’s slightly exhilarating bolting across the street with her by my side, grabbing her hand. I manage to reach the front door first. Open it for Scarlett and usher her through with a magnanimous gesture from my palm.

My mother taught me some manners.

We grab a table in the corner, and the place is far enough from campus that it’s not busy. The likelihood that we’ll bump into anyone? Slim to none, thank fucking God.

“I already know what I want.” She shakes her head, declining a menu when the waitress comes to take our order. “Whatever your soup of the day is, I’d love a bowl of that. And a banana nut muffin. Oh! A hot chocolate, too, please, with lots of whipped cream.”

I stare down at my menu, studying the photographs one by one, undecided. Then, “Give me the pita with everything, extra roast beef please. Mayo, mustard, oil. No tomatoes. Lots of lettuce, and I’ll take extra fries with my fries.” I close the menu and hand it back. “I’ll stick with water and a cup of whatever soup she’s having.”

The girl scribbles on her pad, sneaking furtive glances at me beneath her lashes. She’s definitely a student and definitely recognizes me; I wonder if she’ll ask me to confirm my identity later, or if she’ll leave us the fuck alone to talk in peace.

Then, Scarlett does one of my favorite things: stands to remove her coat.

I don’t know what it is about this gesture that gets me excited, but it does, probably because she’s taking off clothes—any clothes, it doesn’t matter to me.

She’s sliding down the zipper and I intently watch it part, anticipation thrumming my chest. Man, I love when she peels her jackets down her shoulders, revealing whatever she’s got on underneath.

The tight shirt does not disappoint, hugging her fantastic rack. Her slender hips sport black leggings tucked into leather boots.

Scarlett plucks her hat off, finger-combing her hair until it’s smooth. It falls in straight sheets, a stark contrast against her crisp shirt. I watch her bend to shove the hat in her jacket pocket before plopping her tight ass back into her chair.

Mine.

And I’d be remiss not to notice her boobs bouncing when she seats herself.

I shake my head to center myself.

Focus, dammit.

“I want to clarify the conversation we had the other night, since we never really finished it.” It’s been eating away at me, niggling my mind—mostly because I want to fuck her so goddamn bad. “You know, the sex talk.”

I pluck a pink sugar packet from the metal holder in the center of the table and roll it between the pads of my fingers. Tap it on the tabletop to busy my hands, folding back the corners.

My knee bounces under the table.

“Which sex talk? The one we had at my house, or the one we had this weekend when you texted me a picture of your rock hard…bat?”

No, I did not send her a dick pic. She is literally talking about the vintage Louisville Slugger my parents gave me when I signed with Iowa.

“The one where we discussed being responsible about it instead of having it.” My nostrils flare.

“Oh that sex talk.” She shifts in her seat, right leg crossed over her left knee.

“Yeah. That one.”

We’re silent for a few seconds when the waitress comes back with our drinks, setting them one by one on the table, loitering. I raise my brows at her, irritated, hoping she’ll take the hint and walk off.

“So let’s talk about it, because it’s all I can fucking think about.”

“That’s because you’re a raging hormone.” Scarlett takes a dainty sip of her hot chocolate. “I mean, look at you. You look like you want to leap across this table and…”

“Bang you?”

She sputters a little, white frothy whipped cream stuck to the corner of her lip. “That’s one way to put it.” Her forearms rest on the table, but her fingers never leave the ceramic mug. “But you know…I don’t want a relationship based on sex.”

“I don’t want a relationship based on sex either, but it would be super neat if we had lots and lots of it.”

“And all this sex you’re wanting to have is with me?” The sip she takes from her hot chocolate is anything but casual as she eyes me above the rim.

“Uh, yes?”

Her laugh is interrupted by yet another server who sets our plates down. She hovers, too, a blatant attempt at striking up a conversation, though not with us as a couple—with me.

My fingertips tap the table, agitated. Knee bounces.

“Can I get you anything else?”

You can get the fuck away from us. “Nope.”

“Are you sure? We have some really great cookies—they were just delivered from the corner bakery.”

Scarlett smiles politely, oblivious. “We’re good.”