Scored(21)

On second thought, that’s not the best example of insta-love working out.

This isn’t going to work out either.





CHAPTER 8




Dallas


When it comes to women, one line doesn’t fit all and it really doesn’t matter who’s delivering it.

Puzzled with her less-than-enthusiastic response, I say, “I thought you liked honesty.”

“I do, but I like romance too. And pretty words. Poetry. Mr. Darcy in a white shirt and swimming in a pond.”

“Huh?”

“Never mind.” She waves her hand in the air sharply, her shoulders drooping, but then perks up suddenly. “Oh look, our food is here.”

Shit. I’ve fucked up royally and have no clue how.

I wait impatiently while the waiter takes care of us, wanting to dive right back into what’s gone wrong instead of my dinner, but I manage to keep my cool. No reason to take out my frustrations on him or anyone else in the vicinity.

“Can you please explain what I said that made your beautiful smile disappear?” I ask once he’s out of earshot.

She sighs a little. “You are so good when you want to be.”

I am good, but I truly enjoy complimenting women. I truly enjoy women. Hell, I love women. What red-blooded American guy doesn’t?

“You’d rather I be bad?” I quip.

“Maybe?” She lifts a shoulder. “I don’t mean to send mixed signals, but you had me with the first part and lost me with the second. We barely know each other, but you’re already talking about taking me to bed and things not working out. Or working out.”

“Again, I’m only being honest.”

“Then tell me if you’ve used those same lines on a woman before.”

My ears grow hot. “Some of them.”

Her delicately arched brows rise.

“Most of them,” I concede. “But I really do want to get to know you. And hell yes, I want to take you bed. I’m attracted to you.”

When she doesn’t respond, I try again.

“How about we start this date over?” I ask, then stick out my hand. “Hi, I’m Dallas.”

She laughs, disbelief written all over her face, but a beat later, she’s shaking my hand. “Nice to meet you. I’m Paige.”

“Are you from around here?”

“I’m from North Carolina, but not Raleigh.”

“Wow. A unicorn. I didn’t think you guys existed.”

She smiles. “We’re slightly outnumbered by transplants in this area.”

“Like me.”

“Exactly.” She picks up her fork and begins to eat. “Where did you grow up?”

“Michigan. In a town called Wyandotte. My dad worked for the steel mill and my mom was the secretary at the local elementary school. They’re both retired now.” I don’t tell her I made their retirement possible. My parents fully expected to work until they couldn’t, even with pensions. Now, they travel a little, visit my brother as often as they want, and enjoy their time together.

“Do you miss them?”

“Yeah. It’s nice to visit during bye week.”

Her nose scrunches. “What’s bye week?”

“One mandated week off, courtesy of the NFL.”

“Every team takes off at the same time, like football’s version of spring break?”

“Not exactly,” I reply with a chuckle. “They rotate who has off so the American public can still get their football fix on Sundays.”

“Who knew?”

“Finley Owen’s sister should, but she doesn’t enjoy watching football and barely knows anything about it.” I’m half teasing and half serious. How can she not like football?

She rolls her eyes. “You know I didn’t mean it like that! I was only being honest.”

“So was I.” I give her a look.

“Fiiiine.” Her cheeks turn pink. “I’m a hypocrite. Happy?”

“I forgive you.”

“How magnanimous of you,” she says, but her lips are curving into one of her pretty smiles. “I forgive you, too.”

“Knew you couldn’t resist me.” Even as she makes a face, I wink at her and earn another smile. It feels almost as good as scoring on the field. “All right, this is the question-and-answer portion of our date. Ask me anything.”

“Anything at all?” she asks.

“Yup, and you have to let me do the same.”

With a mischievous glint in her eyes, she taps her cheek with one finger and pretends to think it over. “What’s your favorite memory as kid?”

That’s what she wants to know about me? Not about my football career. Or what it’s like to be famous… none of that. I’m so surprised I have to stall for time. “There’s so many… give me a second.”

Paige starts to hum the theme song to Jeopardy.

“All right. All right. I got one.” I hold up a hand for her to stop, and she does. “My parents took us up North to a cottage on Lake Michigan. We swam until we were waterlogged, ate hot dogs slathered in coney sauce, and built a campfire. Roasted marshmallows. My mom hates S’mores, but she made them for us anyway. Then we played cards until bedtime.”