Scored(36)

“True.” I turn my attention back to Nolan, who is practically salivating now. “What do you say?”

“I don’t know.”

Holding the sweatshirt up to my nose, I take a deep breath. It smells nice and clean, but nothing like Dallas. “Oh my gosh, Nolan. This smells exactly like him. Can you imagine him wearing this after a game or something? Think of all the bonus points you’d score with the wifey…”

“Deal.” He holds out his hand and I give him the sweatshirt, smiling broadly as I do.

“Nice doing business with you.”

“You should be ashamed,” he scolds.

“Give it back then.”

He hugs the sweatshirt to his chest. “No take-backs.” He marches out of my office, not bothering to wait for my reply.

“Fine. Wouldn’t want to break up a new couple anyway.”

Layton snorts. “Dinner tonight? With meeee?”

“Is it for freeee?”

“Pfft. Nothing in life is free, but for a t-shirt, I won’t make you put out at the end of the night.”

“Sold.” I pluck out a t-shirt and toss it to Layton, who catches it like a champ. Unlike me, Layton is very graceful and slightly sporty. I think she contains said sportiness because she doesn’t think it’s very ladylike. Only I remember just how unladylike she could be during the juniors-versus-seniors powderpuff football games at homecoming in high school.

“Don’t forget your list.”

“No one could forget that list. It’s practically indestructible.”

Layton narrows her eyes. “That statement best not be based on experience.”

“Yeah, right.” I laugh nervously. “I would never purposefully leave it in the pocket of my oldest pair of jeans and wash them on hot. Like ever. Never.”

“Don’t make me add to the list, Owens.”

“No, please,” I beg.

“That’s better.” She sashays out of my office, leaving me with a box of goodies from Dallas.

I dig through it until I find a note at the bottom:

Bright eyes,

I want to see you wearing my number on Saturday night, around nine pm. Text me to let me know if I’m coming to your place or you’re coming to mine.

Dallas

P.S. I don’t wear pajamas.

“Relentless,” I say with a smile as I put the note down and grab my phone.

Me: Your place again.

Dallas: Look at you being all brave and whatnot.

Me: Layton’s mother is coming for the weekend.

Dallas: Remind me to send her flowers.

Me: I’m not spending the night.

Dallas: I don’t remember asking you to. ;) I almost tap out a response, then realize he hadn’t asked me to spend the night in the note.

Me: My mistake. I didn’t know you were literally talking about pajamas.

Dallas: I’m literally all about fashion. You should let me undress you sometime.

Dallas: (that’s not a typo) Me: I didn’t think it was.

Dallas: Gotta go, bright eyes. Offense team meeting in two minutes.

Me: See you Saturday.

He doesn’t reply, and my heart sinks with disappointment. It shouldn’t, but it does anyway. I plop down in my chair, picking up a book only to set it down again.

I can’t believe I compared Dallas to Shakespeare and Keats. It was a moment of weakness brought on by good food and… flirty banter.

But I really meant it. I wasn’t being sarcastic and the look on his face—he really would have rewarded me with screaming orgasms.

Stupid no-casual-sex rule.

Except that rule has kept me from giving away parts of myself that I wanted to save. Not for the right guy, mind you, but for the guy.

The one.

Dallas can’t be the one. He just can’t. I’ve known him for all of two weeks. That’s simply too fast. Insta-love doesn’t happen for me. I mean, I’ve only slept with two guys in my life and I didn’t love either of them.

They were safe.

They were dependable.

They weren’t athletes.

Instead, they turned out to be cheaters.

Liars.

What if the guy who is supposed to be those things isn’t any of those things? Never has been and never will be?

For all the drama that surrounds Dallas, none of it involves women who accused him of promising them the world and getting the shaft instead. Well, I imagine they got his shaft—he spread it around freely, apparently.

A nervous giggle bubbles up.

I’m just… I’m out of my mind. I should enjoy myself. Keep flirting and eating good food… and maybe even break the only rule I have that used to keep me sane.

*

“Not again,” I groan, propping up my feet on the coffee table. “I’m so done with your list.”

“Shut up.” Layton gobbles down the last of her slice of pizza before slurping down the Pina coladas I made for her. “I so needed tonight.”

“Your wedding dress doesn’t.”

“I won’t eat a thing for the next three weeks,” she vows, her fingers hovering over her heart.

“Draw it. Draw the X.”

Layton snorts. “You can’t make me.” I grab her hand, forcing her finger back. She shoves at me. “Stop pointing that thing at me.”