I Promise You: Stand-Alone College Sports Romance(7)

“Mmm, fascinating.” He reaches around me to grab a package of Nutter Butters.

Just what I expected—I don’t register in his world.

I grab a Nutter Butter package—he won’t get all of those—and my arm brushes against his. Not one tingle.

“Each Oreo wafer is baked for exactly 290.6 seconds at a temperature of 400 degrees Fahrenheit on the top and 300 below,” I say. “That’s very precise cooking.”

“Um, yeah.” He checks the watch on his wrist, an expensive diving one, then looks around me, probably searching for his harem. On his other wrist is a wide leather cuff with a glittering quartz stone in the center. It looks worn and doesn’t quite fit with my perception of him. Maybe a memento? Whatever.

“And the whole Double Stuf Oreo thing? Total lie,” I muse. “They’re only 1.86 times bigger than a regular one. Very annoying advertising gimmick. I mean, if it says double stuffed, it should be. Wonder if I should contact the Better Business Bureau? On the other hand, I doubt it would do any good. Enough Oreos have been sold to wrap around the world 481 times.”

He moves down the aisle to grab chocolate chip cookies. “I get it, you love Oreos. Sorry I took them all. They’re on sale, five dollars off if you buy ten. At that price, they’re practically free. Everybody loves free cookies, and we’re having a party. Leather and Cookies is the theme, and before you ask—yeah, it was my idea.”

“Creative.” I follow him, accidentally on purpose bumping his cart with mine.

His head comes up and he frowns at me as those emotional—yes, emotional—blue-green eyes flash over my face, lingering on my hat, bouncing off the hole in my shirt, taking in my black and green camo pants then landing on my shiny red Doc Martens, my only claim to fashion. Taking his time, he makes his way back up to my face, which I keep composed, but okay, it’s hard. Being the center of that attention for these few seconds is a little disconcerting, but nothing I can’t handle. I’m invincible to his hotness! I am woman!

“Each Oreo has 90 ridges around the perimeter—”

“Perimeter?” He shakes his head as if waking from a bad dream.

“—and National Oreo Day is March 6. Sadly, most people don’t know. I usually celebrate by deep frying them inside a crescent roll. Delicious.”

He blinks. “Look, fine, you want a package of my Oreos—I get it. Normally, I’d be sweet—I am sweet—but I promised my team I’d bring enough back for everyone. I’ve got forty people at my house. You understand, right?” There’s the barest hint of hesitation on his face, as if he’s close to just giving them to me. Maybe he feels sorry for the plain girl—but then his phone chimes and he forgets about me, his fingers flurrying with a text.

As he wanders down the aisle, I follow him, keeping our carts side by side. It’s hard because I have to dodge a display of bagged peanuts, but I manage. Also, my legs are shorter than his, and he walks fast.

“A study in 2013 said Oreos are as addictive as cocaine. If I had to pick something to be addicted to, a cookie isn’t bad. My little sister loves them so much. She’s so adorable.”

His phone forgotten, he swivels his head in my direction, squinting as they sweep over me again, lingering on my hat. A pained expression flashes on his face, as if it hurts to gaze at me. It’s the hat, I know. Horrid.

“Sister? How old?”

“Four. Just precious.” Seventeen, hellion—just like I was.

“Oreos were my brother’s favorite. He used to crumble them up in a glass of milk. Rather gross.” A faint smile flickers on his lips.

“Nice. Just give me a pack of cookies and I’ll be on my way.”

A wary silence settles between us, a crackling in the air. A strange expression spreads across his features, and he lowers his lashes, shielding his gaze. “Do I know you?”

“No.”

“You look familiar.”

“Do I?”

“You go to Waylon?”

“Doesn’t everyone?” No way he knows me. I don’t keep up with sports or attend undergrad classes. Since most of my friends have graduated and moved away, I tend to keep to myself. Maybe he’s seen me in the library, but somehow I have a hard time envisioning this man in the stacks. He’d just have one of his girls study for him.

“You always answer a question with a question?” he asks.

“Is this a trick?”

“Do you know who I am?”

My lips twitch. “Oh, yeah. Totally. David. You play lacrosse.”

He rocks on his heels. “Wrong. If you knew who I was… Well, I might have given you one of my packages of Oreos.”

I let my gaze drift over him lazily. “My bad. Daniel.”

“No.”

“Oops. Dexter, tell me, how does the new lacrosse season look? Think we’ll beat Leland University this year? Or Whitman? I heard Hawthorne really kicked your ass last year.”

A flush rises on his cheeks, and if I had to guess, I’d say annoyance is starting to build inside him. Is it weird that I like sparring with him? Yes. Definitely.

He moves down the aisle.

I follow, and his gaze sharpens as it darts over to me. “Are you stalking me?”

“Hello, there’s only one aisle. Do people actually stalk you? What on earth for?”