STUFFED (The Slate Brothers 2)

“Astrid Tyler,” I answer sternly.

“Astrid Tyler,” he relents, and there’s something sweet and smoky and perfect about the way he says my name. Something that makes heat course down my bare chest and into the places my fingertips had explored just moments before Carson texted me. “You left without saying goodbye,” he says.

“You made it pretty clear you wanted me to leave you alone,” I point out, feeling spun around.

He chuckles, a noise barely audible over the phone line. “That may have been what I made clear, but that wasn’t exactly what I meant.”

“Huh?” Am I too drunk to have this conversation? I’m coming down, I can tell, but Carson isn’t making any sense.

He inhales and I hear a shrug in the sound. “I don’t like that they sent a girl like you to try and squeeze me for info. That’s kind of scummy, don’t you think?”

“They didn’t send me like that. They sent me because the regular sports guy has mono. I swear.”

Carson falls silent for a moment before speaking again. “And I don’t like that you tried to pretend you came to Reign just for the hell of it.”

I press my lips together. “Okay, fair enough. I did come to see you.”

“And I don’t like that you came to see me for your job,” he says, voice lowering a little. It’s growling and frustrated, and reminds me of how utterly masculine Carson Slate is.

“I…” I start, but then the words aren’t there. How am I supposed to respond to that? “I don’t know what that means,” I finally say, which is absolutely the truth.

Carson is quiet for a while, like he’s not convinced I’m being honest. “It means that you, Astrid Tyler, are exactly my type, even if the Bowen Blaze isn’t. So I’m having a hell of a time separating you from the paper you write for.”

“Your type?” I ask meekly, letting my eyes drift shut. This can’t be happening. How is this conversation happening? “I thought— you don’t date. Everyone knows you don’t date.”

“Which is why you’re making my life very difficult, right now,” Carson says, clearing his throat. “Very, very difficult.”

I have no idea what to say. I have no idea what to do, I barely have any idea how to breathe. Is he messing with me? He’s got to be— I saw the sort of girls that Carson Slate attracts. Hell, I’ve seen the kind of girls all the football players attract. They’re tall and curvy and blond, not brunette and so short that I know I’ll get carded till I turn fifty-five.

My core throbs, though, eager to fall, eager to believe that Carson is being serious. Wondering, again, what it would be like to be with him.

“I’m not trying to make you life difficult.”

“Fine then.” He sighs again. “You weaseled your way into an interview. Have at it.”

I can’t believe what I’m hearing. “Are you serious?”

“Go ahead. Ask me your first question before I change my mind,” Carson says, and I snap back to reality, fumbling between the reporter and lustful sides of my brain.

“Oh, uh— yeah. Okay,” I say, licking my lips. “Sure. I guess— how long have you been playing football?” This is a stupid opening question, but I can barely sort out my thoughts right now.

He laughs again, lightly. “Since I was six. Rec league. My dad coached the team. He played in the pro’s for two years, you know.”

“I didn’t know that,” I answer honestly. I can tell that Carson mentioning his father was a sort of test to see if I’d leap on the topic or not. I confess, I am curious about his father, but I don’t want to make Carson angry. I don’t want him to stop talking to me, and not just because it’ll mean losing the story.

I go on. “Okay, then, next question—“

“My turn,” Carson interrupts. “Only fair, right? If you’re going to get personal information from me, I want personal information from you.”

I almost choke, and my body goes rigid. “Um…okay,” I stammer.

Carson waits, like he’s choosing his question very carefully. “Are you still wearing that black dress?”

“It was a romper,” I correct.

“God, women’s clothing is confusing. But that means you’re not wearing it anymore?”

“I’m half wearing it. I pulled it down when I got in bed,” I explain, but then realize that this means I’ve just told Carson that I’m topless. It excites and terrifies me that he might be picturing me in a state of undress— I’ve never had a conversation like this before. I’ve never—

“Keep going,” Carson growls into the phone. “What else are you wearing?”

My breath rattles, and I clench my thighs at the heat growing between them. There’s a genuine ache in my core that’s new and strange and desperate to be alleviated. “Blue panties. Lace.”

“Bra?”

“No.”

He starts to ask another question but I interrupt.