Prologue
Then . . .
I came out of the bathroom as Dustin Slater was going into the Men’s. I bounced off some very hard abs — the guy was taller than me by four or five inches, but his quick hands had caught me before I stumbled.
“Shit, are you okay?”
I nodded, my heart racing. I knew who he was, of course I did, they’d just won the championship, it was impossible not to know. And I already had an unhealthy obsession with the football program.
Was this my chance to get an inside scoop?
I reached out, a casual touch on his arm, my smile apologetic. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t looking where I was going.”
Simple. Basic flirting one-oh-one. A flutter of eyelashes. A coy smile. Even though I’d been playing into it, it didn’t mean I didn’tfeelit — the spark.
I hadn’t been ready for that. I didn’twanttoactuallybe attracted to him, but holy Lord, the guy wasfit. He was gorgeous, and he knew it, but man, that packaging wasfine.
I was probably drooling. It was only slightly humiliating that I’d turned into a ball of need with one look.
“No need to apologize, we walked into each other. Blame can be shared.”
He gave me a smile, and I berated myself for reacting to it, while also realizing I was in his way, which he had very politely not pointed out. “I’ll move,” I told him, and stepped aside. “See you around?”
He didn’t do the sleazy look-me-over thing; he smiled and said, “I’d like that.”
God, he was smooth. I’d almost believed he was genuine. I bet every girl he’d had in his bed thought the same.
When he came back to the bar, he had his back to me, several women around him, and yeah — I took a look. A quick one. A respectful one. Anecessaryone. Because a man’s ass should not look that biteable. At all. He looked like my favorite snack, and I was suddenly starving.
His light brown skin was warm and smooth, a contrast to the hard lines of his body. He moved like he knew exactly what he could do with it.
Short-cropped dark hair. A perfectly trimmed beard. A jaw that looked like it could break me, and a mouth that looked like it would apologize for it beautifully. Worshipfully. And those eyes — dark, stormy, and knowing — the kind that could tempt or taunt with just one look.
I risked another glance — and he was already looking back.
Of course he was.He was a player with a capitalP.
His gaze across the bar had enough heat in it that I was grateful he wasn’t standing close to me, because I’d have been a puddle on the floor.
It landed on me with the casual precision of someone who always knew when he was being watched.
And his smile — the one he used on cameras, crowds, and girls who didn’t know better — appeared slow and deliberate. Like he knew exactly what I was thinking.
And helikedthat I was thinking it.
I didn’t look away despite my own internal conflict warning me that this was a very bad idea.
I was on unofficial probation for my blog post that questioned the athletic department’s spending, specifically the football program. I’d kept my head down ever since my run-in with Dean Cole, and whenever I got the itch to look into it again, I’d remember the dean’s hard glare and words of warning.
But the journalist in me wanted that story.
And now here I was, holding Dustin’s stare, my mind racing through all the reasons why this was a bad idea, but Dustin Slater was a star player; there was no way he was ignorant of what was happening in that program.
It was one conversation, possibly two. What harm could it be to flirt a little?
The journalist wanted the story; the woman... well, a closer look at him would still count as research. Right?
Fueled with solid reasoning, I lifted my drink in a silent toast to the sportsman across the bar, and perhaps there was a little bit of ‘I don’t care’ in there to the dean as well.