I hum appreciatively, liking the sound of this. “Go on.”
“Yes, I thought that might interest you,” she says, flicking her blonde hair off her shoulder as we walk along the water on an uncharacteristically warm San Francisco day. “Do you want me just to list all the hotties who will be there?”
“I do.” I mime taking notes. “Yes. Ideally, include important details like if he has dreamy eyes, a devilish smile, a sharp wit, and a similar disdain for strings.”
She clasps her hand to her chest. “Perish the thought of strings.”
I laser her with a stare. “I have damn good reasons for thinking strings are rubbish.”
“You do,” she concedes. “But I hear you on the basic requirements. What you want is a hot, charming, funny, available athlete who wants a weekend of hot banging before you jet off to London?”
“Ding-ding-ding! And we have a winner.”
“I think I just described virtually every athlete in attendance,” she says.
“Then this fair sounds like a brilliant way to spend my Friday afternoon,” I say, then we head up to the ticket counter, purchase a pack, and go straight for the dart toss.
But I do a double-take when the dunk tank comes into view.
Hello, Adonis.
I whistle under my breath. “Talk about abs.”
Reese sets a hand on my shoulder, smiling as her wedding band glints in the sun. “Yes, Hunter. Along with a penchant for learning languages, this is another thing we have in common—we both like athletes.”
She’s married to the second baseman from the San Francisco Dragons, so she definitely digs the ballplayers. She also has the intel on pretty much every local jock. I tip my forehead to the man with the eight-pack. “Please tell me he’s not straight.”
She squeezes my shoulder. “He’s not straight at all.”
“That’s also my type.” I stare shamelessly at the strapping stud in the dunk tank, all golden-brown hair, carved jaw, and cool blue eyes. He looks dry, though, and that’s such a shame. “A man like that should be wet, droplets sliding down his chest on a fast track to his happy trail,” I say with a sigh. What can I say? I’m visual like that.
“Wow. Do you just want me to leave you here with your salacious imagination?”
I pretend to look around. “Not sure there’s room for both of us.”
“I was a little worried too,” she jokes.
But I don’t fashion a comeback since I’m mesmerized by the guy. His smile is easy, the kind of careless, slightly arrogant grin that men who throw balls for millions of dollars can sling around.
It’s a smile that’s hard to look away from, though. Especially when he laughs, teasing a teen at the front of the line consisting of mostly men.
The teen tests the weight of a baseball in his hand.
“I’m waiting. Just lounging on the dock all day,” he shouts to the beanpole of a teen who hurls a helluva baseball toward the target.
Then . . . splash.
The Adonis falls, and yes, I do believe I have an Aquaman fetish now.
The guy shoots up in the tank, tips his head back, and slicks a big hand through his wet hair, smiling.
“Well done, man,” he says to the skinny teen, then climbs out of the dunk tank and grabs a towel. His shift must be over.
“And that is Nate Chandler. A wide receiver for the Hawks,” Reese says.
Ah, the name is familiar enough—one of the well-known out players of a handful on the city’s various pro sports teams.
But, better-known right this second as the new object of my afternoon delight fantasy.
And I’m going to find a way to talk to him.
“Hey Jason,” Reese calls out to the Hawks quarterback as I work through conversation starters for Nate.
“Hey girl,” Jason says when he reaches Reese and me.
Reese turns to me, squeezing my arm. “Jason, this is my friend Hunter. And I have a feeling he’d be ever so chuffed,” she says, putting on a posh accent for the last three words, “if you’d arrange an intro for him with Nate.”
And as Jason calls his friend over and does the meet my friend dance, I guess I don’t need to find a way. Reese has lubed the path for me. Now that’s a true friend.
3
NATE
Admittedly, shirtless is a good look on me. So I’ve got no problem wearing next to nothing when I meet a sharp-dressed man—especially a guy who wears the hell out of dark blue pants like that. They’re clearly custom-tailored, and they hug his legs in all the right ways.
Nice and tight.
Hunter’s snug shirt teases me with a small thatch of dark hair peeking out at the top of the buttons.
But it’s his face that makes me want to send roses and chocolates to Reese Kingsley. Because holy fuck. His jawline could cut stone for Michelangelo. It’s so square, and carved, and covered in just the right amount of afternoon stubble.