The Revenge Pact (Kings of Football #1)(31)

“Oh yes, definitely.”

I take a long sip of my coffee. “Question: is it the S or the C that’s silent in the word scent?”

His lips quirk. “I have no idea. Drink up.”

I run my finger over the rim. “You want me sober. Today, I don’t want to be. What about sand? Do you think they called it that because it’s between the sea and the land?”

He gets me a refill then sits back down. “My body wash is mangoes. You notice a lot, Anastasia.”

Gingerly, I take a sip. “You say my name weird.”

He wipes at the crumbs on the table. “How’s that?”

“You linger over it, like you’re about to take its clothes off and fuck it.”

“Weed is truth serum for you.”

“You ever been high?”

“Once by accident when I ate something at the frat house. Football is front and center. Drugs are a no-go for me. I can’t even take—” He stops.

“What?”

He spins a nacho chip around on his plate. “I have ADHD. The drugs don’t work on me.”

“That explains your energy, always twisting that ring. Honestly?”

“Mhmm.”

“Your vivacity is part of your appeal. Women see the electricity you emit and want to grab hold of it. Ride the bull. Get electrocuted.”

“I kill girls with my snake?”

“Shut up.”

“Vivacity,” he says with a smirk. “Another big word. Actually, I’m pretty chill—right now. You’re like…” He sighs. “The calm before a storm.”

“Hurricane Ana.”

“Hurricane Anastasia,” he says softly.

My breath hitches. “There it is. Sex—you’re dripping in it.”

He straightens his shoulders and gives me a deadpan look then repeats my name in a monotone. “Better?”

“No. You look like…” a walking, talking god. I wave my hands at him. “You.”

“I can’t help that you’re attracted to me.”

Oh. He went there.

My buzz flattens, and I grow silent as the tension in the room thickens. I lift my cup and drink coffee. I picture Donovan in my head. “I’m not. At all. You’re the total opposite of what I look for in a guy. I don’t do bad boys.”

“I’m a bad boy?”

I arch a brow. “Seriously?”

His tattooed fingers tap the table. “Hmmm. Have you ever wondered what would have happened if I’d been the one waiting for you that night after the library?”

My heart dips.

Part of me wanted it to be him. I swallow and don’t speak—afraid of what I might say.

“I don’t think you’ll remember this conversation tomorrow or else I wouldn’t have mentioned it,” he murmurs, playing with his water bottle.

“I won’t?”

“I hope you don’t.” He reaches behind him, pulls my book out of his back pocket, and slides it over to me. “I came to see if you’d help me with my paper in this class. This I want you to remember.”

My heart kicks up as I recall the tension between us today outside the elevator. How close he stood to me, the tingles when he touched my face and wished me happy birthday. “I can’t.” It’s wrong.

“Why? No, don’t answer that.” A long exhalation comes from his chest. “Why did I come here? Shit.”

“You’re impetuous,” I say.

“I’m an electrical hazard plus impulsive. I see.”

“You’re dangerous…” to me.

And I lied before.

He’s exactly the kind of guy I go for: tattooed and sexy AF. He reminds me a little of Bryson, my great love at seventeen, but only in how they look. Deep down, I suspect they are vastly different, which is a good thing.

But I have Donovan.

From the den, the girls crank up “Apple Bottom Jeans,” and I jump up from the table. I need out of this conversation!

“That’s my theme song! Let’s go, Real River!”

He follows me into the den. Lila sways her hips to the beat, a teddy bear in her hands, and Colette sits on the floor, playing video games with streamers wrapped around her neck. Lila gives me a lopsided high five then moves the coffee table against the wall to give us more room. “Shake it, girl!” she calls out.

I spin in circles and whoop with my arms raised. Stopping in the center of the den, I bend my knees and twerk, the thump of the bass syncing with the pounding of my heart.

I can get down with a good beat.

When I was seventeen, my parents traveled to Vancouver and left me in New York City with one of the many friends they collected. His name was Bryson, a thirty-year-old musician with tattoos and dreamy eyes. I was there to study music with him and his sister. He’d crank up the speakers in his loft and we’d dance. Older people were all I’d ever known, and the thirteen years between us felt like a small, inconsequential thing. My mom is ten years younger than my dad, so it felt normal. I was young and looking for love in all the wrong places, and boy, did he ever woo me: long walks in Central Park, candlelit dinners, and poetry. He took my virginity—and my heart. Darker memories of him pull at me, recollections of the hurtful secrets he kept.