Scored(19)

“Nothing could ever be as romantic as This is the guy you couldn’t stop feeling up in your office. Let me know when I can return the favor.”

“True. Read the new one to me.”

“Dallas: Hopefully, you added me to your contacts by now. If not, I’m the guy who saved you from falling to your death today. What do you think?” I ask.

Layton makes a small noise and lifts a shoulder. “That’s a lot better.”

“Should I answer him?”

“Better to find out now if he’s showing up or not,” Layton says.

My heart beats wildly in my chest and butterflies take flight in my stomach.

Me: I haven’t forgotten you. Thanks for saving me.

Dallas: I’m running a little late, but I will be there.

Me: That’s okay. I’ll take my time.

Dallas: Can’t wait to see you, Paige. I’ll meet you at the entrance.

I send him the emoji with happy hands and a smile.

“He’s chosen wisely,” Layton says. “A good thing since I wasn’t looking forward to ruining my Louboutins when I shoved each one up his ass.”

“I like it when you get all country. Makes me miss Washington County.”

“You can take the girl out of the country, but you can’t take the country out of the girl. Or forget the kickboxing lessons Master Lee drilled into me.” She pulls me to my feet and lightly shoves on my back. “Finish getting ready, lady!”

*

True to his texts, Dallas is waiting for me at the entrance while he talks on his phone. He’s wearing dark slacks that hug his powerful thighs and a burgundy-colored shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. That man has no idea what he does to me. Well, he has somewhat of an idea due to me sharing my love of forearms with him.

Oh, and that move he pulled in the library—the one where he stood like a freaking superhero—total panty melter. How could it not be? I was still turned on from him touching my hand and our banter. Also, I’m incredibly weak when it comes to super-hot guys with god-like physiques.

So sue me; I’m shallow sometimes.

As soon as he sees me, he smiles and puts his phone away. Suddenly, I don’t know what to do. It’s been so long since I’ve had a date that my mind goes blank.

Does he expect me to hug him, kiss his cheek, or give him a high five?

Instead of doing any of those things, I stop just shy of him and do what makes me comfortable.

I wave and smile. “Hi.”

“Hey, yourself. You look amazing,” he says, his gaze raking over me from head to toe.

“Thanks.” I make a grand sweeping gesture that travels from my head to the bottom of my dress. “This outfit is germ free of floors.”

“Bet I can change that.”

My eyes widen. “Do you plan on making me fall off another ladder?” I ask, purposefully mistaking his meaning.

“Touché, Ms. Owens.” He places his hand on the small of my back. I can feel the heat of his skin through my dress, and I shiver. “I don’t think I can take another bruising of my ego in order to make that happen.”

“What did the doctor say about your head?” I look at his lip. The swelling is gone and the cut that remains is almost too small to see.

“I’m cleared to play on Sunday.” He clears his throat, and my gaze fixes on his face. “My lip is okay too. He fixed me up.”

“That’s good.”

“I wanted to be prepared for anything.”

A man wearing a dark suit and even darker sunglasses opens the door. “Enjoy your dinner, Mr. Drake and Ms. Owens.”

“He knows our names?” I whisper as we step inside.

“Had to put you on the guest list. They don’t let just anyone in here.”

“Then how did you get in?”

He laughs. “I’m starting to think you’re more naughty than nice.”

“Nah, I’m just sassy and… I like banter. Flirting. It’s fun with the right person.”

His laughter dies. “That’s a nice compliment coming from someone like you.”

“Meaning?”

“It’s obvious your smart. You work in a library, but you don’t treat me like a dumb jock.”

His comment stuns me into silence.

We stop at the hostess station, then are taken straight to our booth where a waiter gets our drink orders and another person comes right behind him to place a basket of bread and a plate of butter on the table.

“Does that happen a lot? People treating you poorly because of what you do?” I ask.

“Happens more often than you think, but I can’t complain. I make too much money.” He grabs a roll and rips it apart, then spreads butter on a couple of bites before pushing the plate to me. “Can’t eat carbs right now.”

“You have less than eight-percent body fat. I don’t think carbs will hurt you.”

“It’s seven percent, and bad carbs will ruin everything I’ve worked for during the season.” He leans back and runs his hand down his incredibly flat stomach. “Come off-season, though, and bread’s not safe around me.”

“No dates to Panera until after the Super Bowl. Got it.” I grin, pleased with myself.

“Do you watch that?”