Risky Play (Red Card #1)(43)

Instead he just grabbed a plate and then called over his shoulder, “Did you want any?”

“Uh . . .” I almost scratched my head and turned around in a circle. “Must have been a good day? Did you get a bonus or something?”

He stopped piling food onto his plate and turned, bracing himself against the counter. “Bonus?”

“Money,” I clarified. “You know, green stuff. You buy things with it, in your case probably prostitutes.”

He grinned and snorted out a laugh. “No. I spent the first half of my morning teaching elementary school kids which goal to run toward, and fought with your friend”—he made air quotes—“Jagger for the first fifteen minutes of camp.”

“Ah.” There he was. Air quotes and all. “It’s a shame your community service includes teaching this generation’s future.” I grinned.

“Hah-hah.” He wagged his finger at me. “I’d like to think we put our differences behind us when the kiddos are watching. Case in point, I didn’t even swear.”

“Wow! Turning over a new leaf, huh?” I teased.

He dug the fork into his chili, then dipped his corn bread in right after. “You know you’re spoiling me, right?”

“That’s my plan . . . you know, next to the shrine I keep by my bedside and the candles I light around your picture. Fingers crossed one of them works.” I grabbed my purse and coat.

“Hey, I had a stalker email me a picture of her shrine—I doubt yours has a light show.” He shrugged. “And she had at least twenty candles to your few, so you may need to up your game.”

“She sent you a picture?”

“Over Instagram. You know how it blocks pictures? Her name was an old teammate’s, clearly on purpose. I clicked and haven’t gotten the image out of my mind for a solid three years.” He took another bite and then nodded to the table. “Stay, hang out.”

“You don’t pay me to hang out.” Keep it professional, keep it friends. He was being nice because . . . because he doesn’t like Jagger. Focus!

Slade frowned. “What am I? The worst company in the world? The worst friend?” He pulled out a chair for me. “Sit down and tell me . . .” His eyes roamed over my body a bit. “Tell me . . . about your day.”

“Curious, it seems like you’re trying to have a conversation with me without sliding in the term NDA, kissing me, insulting me, or forcing your friendship on me . . . are we . . . adulting today, Slade?”

He grinned wide. “You’re a smart-ass, you know this, right?”

I nodded. “I come by it honestly.” With a huff I got up, grabbed a bowl, and made my way over to the stove. I put in two heaping spoonfuls and was already taking a bite out of the corn bread when I sat down.

“That was possibly the biggest bite I’ve ever seen another human take out of corn bread up close,” he observed, making me almost choke.

I reached for his water.

Drank.

And then put it back.

“Get any corn bread floaties in there?” He jerked his head toward it.

“If I did, it will be a special sort of surprise,” I fired back.

He laughed. “I like this.”

“What?” I blew across my chili. “The risk of backwash?”

He set his spoon down and stared at me so hard I started getting uncomfortable. Those golden eyes were like laser beams, and they saw more than I wanted him to.

They saw past my humor.

Past my sarcasm.

Sometimes I thought they saw through to the hurt girl who just wanted someone to see her and say, “You, I want you. Nobody else.”

“You,” he said like he could read my mind. “Me.” I deflated a bit. “Us.” He shrugged. “I like us getting along . . . I, um . . .”

“Don’t.” I shook my head. “Don’t ruin things by getting serious.”

“This is serious.” He half growled. “I’m trying—no, scratch that, I want to try . . . with you. I want to be better, I don’t want to be the guy who lets one tragic thing in his life turn him into a man he doesn’t recognize . . . I guess I just wanted you to know I’m trying.”

I gulped. “I know.”

“And I’m glad we’re friends.”

My heart crashed against my rib cage, then sailed to the ground. Why was I stupid enough to become friends with the guy whose kisses were seared into my soul? Why?

“Me too.” I forced a smile.

He returned it with a wink. “Hey, Mack?”

“What, Slade?” I reached for my spoon.

“You’re a bad liar.”

I glared. “I’m not lying.”

“That would be lie number two.”

“I’m not . . .” I huffed. “Of course I’m happy we’re friends.”

“Is that why you’re gripping your spoon the way you gripped my—”

I shoved a piece of corn bread into his mouth. “Sorry, you looked hungry still.”

It fell onto his chili.

He shook his head and chewed the part still in his mouth, then whispered so low that chills erupted down my arms. “I’ll wear you down, Mack . . . and look at the bright side. If you don’t want my friendship . . . and you don’t want me as an enemy, there’s only one logical choice.”