The Jock Script (The Script Club 3)

She pointed at the IKEA box in the corner. “It’s not very big, but it should fit in the niche nicely, and I can use the extra storage for periodicals. The trick will be putting it together. It seems simple enough to—”

“I’ll do it,” I blurted.

“Honey, that’s very nice of you, but—”

“And I can take a look at the faucet too.”

Mom cocked her head and pursed her lips. “I appreciate the offer, Ash, but the superintendent should deal with plumbing, and as for the bookshelf…you’re not exactly dressed for construction.”

I glanced down at my attire and frowned. “True, but I can return…with power tools.”

“Power tools?” She looked vaguely concerned now. “Oh, honey. That sounds dangerous.”

“No, no. I’m quite proficient with the use of power tools,” I lied. And because I’d just fibbed, I was either going to have to knock a point off or learn how to use them quickly. “Mostly anyway. Um…when do you need this complete?”

“Asher, I don’t—”

“Next weekend or the weekend after?”

“Uh, well, I’m not in a hurry,” she conceded.

“Perfect! Then it’s settled,” I pronounced. “I’ll contact you shortly and make arrangements to build you a beautiful bookshelf as an expression of gratitude.”

“Asher…”

“I insist.”

5

Blake

“Do you know how to build a bookshelf?”

I glanced up from the menu the server had just set in front of me and reached for my water as I eyed my date. Correction…my dinner companion, who happened to be wearing a bow tie. An actual bow tie. I hadn’t gotten around to asking Asher if it was a clip-on or if it was a complicated process that took years to get right. I hadn’t worn one since I was a ring bearer in my aunt’s wedding when I was four years old. Truthfully, I’d always thought they were kinda dorky…until now.

Damn, he looked sexy as fuck.

Perfectly pressed and sharp as a tack in his navy trousers, white button-down shirt under a blue plaid blazer, and yeah, a red bow tie. I wanted to unwrap him like a birthday present, then eat him up, and—

He was staring at me. What was the question again?

Oh, right. Bookshelves.

“Yes,” I replied without hesitation. “From scratch or assembly…I can do both. I’m pretty good with my hands.”

Asher dropped his menu. The wispy piece of paper fluttered to the floor, landing in the aisle between our table and the one across from us. Ash paid no attention. He sat frozen with his mouth open, looking at me the way I’d just been looking at him—with barely disguised desire and a pinch of “WTF is happening here?”

He snapped out of it when a waiter paused to hand it back to him.

“Thank you,” he said, clearing his throat noisily as he refocused. “That’s good. I need your assistance. Rather…my mother does. She’s building a bookcase for her home office, and I told her I’d do it for her. I’m incapable of doing that without guidance…and body armor. But perhaps you could show me how to work with a few tools.”

I crossed my arms and fixed him with a faux-surprised look. “You lied? To your mother?”

“Yes and no. It was a fib I’m going to rectify with your assistance. Once I’ve helped you and my mother, I’ll be firmly in the good karma lane again.” He smiled proudly, then tapped the menu. “What are you having to eat?”

“Uh…the brussels sprout Caesar and the bolognese. How about you?”

“Hmm. I’m interested in the Caesar too, but I’m not sure I’ll enjoy it in brussels sprout form. That sounds dicey.”

I chuckled, pushing my menu to the edge of the table. “Take a walk on the wild side, baby. Or…we can share the Caesar and order an appetizer to split.”

He wrinkled his nose. “That’s a lot of sharing. And I’d rather taste before committing.”

“That’s what I’m suggesting. Two forks, one salad. If you don’t like it, I’ll eat the rest.”

“Sharing food from the same plate is a chancy endeavor. Germs, you know.”

“Dude, you’ve had my dick in your mouth. Are you really worried about brussels sprout bacteria?”

Asher blinked in surprise. “Yes, but that does sound silly, doesn’t it?”

“Very. You’re a germaphobe, eh?”

“A little bit.” He shrugged when I fixed him with a dismayed stare. “Okay, fine. More than a little. I’m not over-the-top, but I like for everything to be clean and—”

“Perfect,” I intercepted.

“If possible…yes.”

“I understand, but will you trust me on this one?”

He narrowed his gaze as if considering the concept. “Yes, but I’d like to divide the salad onto two plates. If I don’t enjoy it, I’ll give you the rest of mine.”

“Deal.”

The waiter showed up on cue to take our order. I bit the inside of my cheek to keep my smile in check when Asher asked twenty questions about the source of the fish and the contents in the salad dressing. He was friendly and courteous and somehow managed to make his inquiries seem endearing rather than annoying. That earnest, inquisitive nature was part of Asher’s charm. He wasn’t trying to impress anyone; he simply wanted answers.