Hoops Holiday (Hoops 2.50)

“You always think you know best,” I continue, enjoying this more by the second. “And you love ordering people around.”

“Okay, maybe I should just tell you before you really hurt my feelings.”

“Like I could,” I scoff.

He doesn’t answer, but looks down at the table, a smile curling the corners of his wide, sensual mouth.

“Quarterback,” I say triumphantly. “Am I right?”

His laugh is richer than the chocolate ganache I ordered, but shouldn’t eat.

“God, I wish I could say you’re wrong,” he admits with a grin. “Yeah, quarterback.”

“I knew it.” I brush my shoulders off.

“Uh huh. Now who’s the know it all?”

“Oh, I don’t deny it.” I take a sip of my neglected drink. “I always assume I have the right answer.”

“I have observed that over the last week.” He shoots me a speculative glance before continuing. “There’s a lot I haven’t learned, though.”

The vodka seems to pause midway down my throat. I cough a little and wait for him to start the questions I’ve seen in his eyes for days.

“Like did you play any sports yourself?” he asks.

I breathe a little easier. This is comfortable territory.

“Track and field.”

“Ahhh.” He nods as if answering himself. “That explains it.”

“Explains what?” I ask, taking another sip.

His eyes burn a trail over my neck and breasts until the table interrupts his view.

“Your body.”

I cough again, reaching for a napkin to wipe my mouth.

“My-my body?” I hate how breathy I sound all of a sudden. With a few well-placed words and a look, he has me sputtering and simmering.

“I’m sure you know women who run track and field often develop a certain body type,” he says, leaning forward until I can’t see much of anything beyond the width of his shoulders. “Lean arms.”

Even though my arms are hidden beneath my blouse, my skin heats up when he runs his eyes over them.

“Muscular legs,” he continues, locking his eyes with mine. “A tight, round—”

“I’m aware,” I cut in, “of what my body looks like. I see it every day.”

“Wish I could say the same.”

My face heats up. I know a blush doesn’t show through my complexion, but judging by the way his grin goes wider and wickeder, it doesn’t take color in my cheeks to tell him I’m heating up.

“So, you chose basketball.” I shift the conversation back to safer ground that won’t burn under my feet like hot coals.

“Yes.” His grin lingers, but he indulges my redirection. “All through college.”

“And then the NBA,” I add.