The Perfect Game (The Perfect Game 1)

“Conditions?”

“Yeah. I only agreed to come here if they agreed to let him in too. ”

My jaw dropped. “You bribed the university?”

He wagged his finger. “No. I just said I’d come here as long as when Dean was old enough, they’d let him in too. ”

“And they agreed to that?” I asked, somewhat horrified. “I mean, obviously they did ’cause you’re both here. ”

He laughed. “Dean would have gotten in anyway, but I wanted assurance. ”

“Interesting. ” I ran my fingers through my hair, tucking the stray strands back in place behind my ear, quietly fighting the sense that this guy might not be so bad after all.

He leaned across the table, inching closer to me. “What is?”

“You’re just different than I expected,” I answered, focusing on his full lips.

“That’s ’cause you’re judgmental. ” He leaned back with a smile.

I closed my mouth and narrowed my eyes, unprepared for the rant that was about to leave my lips. “No. That’s ’cause you’re a pig. You’re typical and selfish and pathetic and you treat girls like shit and…”

“Hey!” he interrupted, his tone offended. “Who says I treat girls like shit?”

“Sorry, Jack, but I don’t know anyone who enjoys being fucked one minute and forgotten about the next. ”

“You make it sound so heartless when you say it like that,” he admitted, my words apparently stinging.

“Well it kind of is. ” I shrugged. “And you wonder why I wanted to stay away from you?”

“You thought I’d do the same thing to you. ” His eyes widened as understanding settled in.

“I assumed you wanted to. ”

“Of course I want to sleep with you,” he admitted without shame and I felt my inner thighs tingle. “But I’m not sold on the forgetting about you part. ”

I eyed him warily, my heart racing beneath my shirt. “You probably say that to all the girls. ”

“I don’t have to say that to all the girls. ”

I sat in silence, stunned by his honesty.

“What are you thinking about?” He reached over and tapped my hand with one finger, bringing me out of my thoughts.

“Honestly?”

“Honestly. ”

“That I don’t trust myself with you. ”

He folded his arms across his chest. “And why’s that?”

“Because I can’t tell whether or not you mean the things you say. ”

He uncrossed his arms and leaned into the table again. “What does your heart tell you?”

“Who cares? My heart’s dumb! It believes anything,” I said, clutching at my chest above my left breast.

He laughed, his eyes glued to my hand. “Fine. What does your head tell you then?”