Charlie is Charlie, and nothing about her is easy.
So this? This feels fucking great—fantastic, even.
Like a small victory, a euphoria I haven’t felt in a lot of years, including when I’m on the playing field, running a damn football in a stadium full of screaming fans.
This…
This is better.
“I’m not saying I want to kiss you. I’m saying I’m going to.”
Same thing, cupcake.
“And I’m saying you don’t have to.”
“Why are we arguing about this, then? Don’t you want me to?” Her shoulders slump, defeated.
Shit.
“I didn’t say that, either—I’m a guy, we’re idiots. Why do you think I was talkin’ so stupid?”
“Tawkin,” she echoes, turning to face me once we reach her door. Her hands rise to brush the collar of my shirt, a smile playing at her lips. “Tawkin stoopid…”
“You makin fun of me?” It wouldn’t be the first time she mocked my accent, but this time she’s doing it directly to my face, our faces and mouths and hands mere inches apart.
The heat from her body warms the skin on my neck, hands still lingering. Fingers brushing the place I painstakingly shaved not hours ago to look slightly presentable.
Earlier, when I was getting dressed, I’d been tempted to call my mama for advice—not that she’d have any. But I’ve never been on a date before and figured she might be able to, I don’t know. Tell me what to wear. Something, I don’t know. Then I thought better of it; knowing Mama would tell Pops and knowing that when he found out, he’d probably lose his shit.
Girls equals distraction.
Oddly enough, for once, I don’t give a fuck what my father thinks.
I’m twenty-two years old; it’s time to stop living in fear of a man who ultimately has no control over my future. I do.
Me and my agent, Brock—only we decide what I do and where I’ll go when I get drafted.
And I will.
I’m predicted to go early in the second round.
Fingers crossed I go to the Cowboys, but now I’m not sure I want to be so close to home and my meddling parents. Me being a professional isn’t going to chill my pops the fuck out—it’s going to make him worse.
He is the male version of Kris Jenner.
I shake my head. Stop thinking about your parents, dumbass. Charlie’s hands are near your face. Focus on that.
Focus on her.
I stand still as stone, flattening my body against the exterior side paneling of her house, letting her decide how long she’s going to touch me.
I watch her eyes cast downward, sliding to my pecs. They’re firm and muscular from hundreds of hours spent in the gym on the bench press. On the field running drills. On the pavement, running laps.
Charlie seems to be debating; about what, I’m not sure, but she’s tentative, delicate hands now hovering over my shirt, still at the neckline.
I watch the dipped crown of her head; she might be tall, but I still tower over her, and the part in her corn silk hair has me fascinated. I want to touch it—I’ve never, not once, run my fingers through a girl’s hair before, and I’m dying to do it right this second.
Shit.
I want her to touch me. Just for a few minutes, Charlie. Just for a second.
There is a light shining on her tiny porch, but it’s behind her head. She’s shrouded in darkness while my face is stuck in the spotlight, the glare blinding me.
I cringe, ducking my head.
“You don’t like that, do ya?”
“No.”
“Now you know how I feel.” The little shit laughs, the palm of her hand roaming to the scruff on my face. I shaved this afternoon, but a few hours have gone by and it’s grown. “I’ll forgive you just this once.”
Her voice is a murmur, thumbs stroking my cheekbones, almost giving me a stroke.
Shit. I’m getting a hard-on.
“Oh yeah?” I squeak out, nervously.
“Yeah. I suppose I will.” Unlike mine, Charlie’s palms are smooth—callous-free and roaming over the sunburn marring the flesh below my eye. “Your poor skin.”
“I don’t wear sunscreen,” I say stupidly, wishing I’d shut my own mouth.
“I can’t imagine you applying sunscreen—too big a hassle, hmm?” She hums in her throat, and I wonder when the fuck she’s going to put me out of my misery and kiss me already.
Patience has never been my strongest virtue.
Charlie hums again as she studies my face with her fingers, the tips trailing from my brow bone down the bridge of my nose. The tip. The indentation above my top lip.
“You’re so…” Her head gives a small shake, too bashful to finish her thought.
“So what?” I sound desperate for her to say what’s on her mind.
Desperate for words no girl has ever said to me—and I don’t even have a clue what they could be.
“Masculine.”
“Is that a good thing?” Don’t tell me if it’s a bad thing; don’t say it.