“Sorry,” I mumble. I stop walking, lowering the hot dog. I’m tempted to toss it in the nearest trash can. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”
I can’t meet his gaze. But Liam doesn’t seem cool with my apology.
He plants himself in front of me. We’re blocking the flow of the crowd. Making a scene.
He doesn’t care.
“What was that?”
“What?”
“Your reaction just now, apologizing for doing nothing wrong. That’s not okay.” His eyes lock on mine. “I didn’t mean to criticize you. Moan about your food as loudly as you want. I’ll just have to deal with that.”
“Deal with it?” I ask, confused.
“Yeah, wifey.” His voice drops an octave. “Remember that thing where the attraction here is mutual?”
He steps closer. “You’re wearing my jacket. You’re moaning.” His gaze drops to my lips. “And you have a smudge of sauce at the corner of your mouth that’s driving me insane.”
Liam reaches out. He brushes his thumb over the spot, wiping away the errant sauce. Then, still holding my gaze, he puts the pad of his finger in his mouth and sucks it clean.
What he did is actually pretty disgusting. Unhygienic. But I stare at his lips, transfixed.
I scowl. “You really suck at not being sexy.”
I shove past him, my heart hammering against my ribs.
His chuckle chases me; it lands at the base of my spine and sparks a fire that I should put out at once, but which I’m tempted to pour more gasoline over instead.
25
PEYTON
The stadium lights blaze against the darkening sky.
I’ve been to professional sporting events that felt less produced than the tunnel of blue and silver streamers that greets us at the entrance, with volunteers in matching polo shirts checking tickets and the thunder of drums from somewhere inside.
“This is a high school game?” I ask, craning my neck to take in the massive Jumbotron looming over the field. “My school was big on baseball, but the stadium was a dirt patch with splintery bleachers and a half-broken scoreboard.”
“Welcome to Blue Crescent Harbor.” Liam guides me through the crowd with a hand at the small of my back. “Where Friday night football is a religion.”
We don’t head toward the general seating. Liam steers me up a set of stairs.
“Where are we going?”
“The VIP box.”
“And you get access because?”
Liam’s nostrils flare. “I’m from a founding family.”
Wow, founders are really treated like royalty in this town.
“And we contributed heavily to building the stadium.”
We emerge into an enclosed space beside the press box with glass walls, heating lamps, and proper seats instead of metal bleachers.
The room is already half-filled with people I recognize. Carrie Montgomery waves from where she’s seated next to a distinguished man in his early forties with dark blond hair. The mayor I assume. Sheriff Bingham is perched a few rows back. And Rebecca Evans is holding a few seats near the front row.