“She’s about a foot shorter than you with wavy brown hair. Kind of has a ’50s pinup style to her. Wears a lot of silver bracelets on both arms. Jingles like a Christmas tree. Very attractive.”
Matt squints as if trying to picture her. “Not seeing it.”
Neither of us seems interested in sleep. It’s like the first night we were together, when all we wanted to do was talk. “If you slept with her, would you remember her?”
“Yeah, why wouldn’t I?” He shrugs. His shoulder roll actually highlights his muscles, lifting the pecs up into the light and then down into the shadows. “I haven’t slept with that many women.”
“So you could name them all?” The seemingly unending list of winners that popped up in the hashtag scroll by in my mind’s eye. That bit weighs heavily in the risk column.
He sighs deeply. “Probably not. Does it matter, though? The women I’ve slept with have wanted the same thing. Simple, easy release. There’s no shame in the hookup. Not for the girl or the guy as long as everyone’s on the same page.” He rolls onto his back, taking the peep show with him.
He has me there, and frankly, I don’t want to know his list of past conquests. I don’t know why I brought it up in the first place other than I need a reason to dislike him. I need to remind myself that he’s a risk with a capital “R” because my defenses toward him are so weak right now.
I play my last defense card. “You’re really not going to tell me what’s going on with Ace? What made you and Jack argue earlier?”
“No.”
He shifts again on the mats but doesn’t invite himself into the bed, even though I’m pretty sure he wants to. He’s not the only one.
Finally, I give in, because I’m weak and he’s so damned attractive. “You can sleep on the bed with me, but I swear to you if you try to feel me up tonight, I will cut off your hand.”
He’s up and at the bed before I finish.
Grinning down at me, he says, “I kind of need my hands. Would you consider cutting off a finger? Or three? Because apparently you can still be a damned good linebacker with only a few fingers.”
“Depends on the infraction.” I move over to the far side of the bed. Matt climbs in beside me.
“I like you, Goldie. And your insistence on labeling me as risky does not make me like you any less,” he says cheerfully and tucks his hands under his pillow. His elbow lands close enough to my head that if I simply turned my cheek, I could kiss it.
I force myself to lie still.
“I don’t know what that means,” I tell him.
“It means I’m not done with you.”
I frown. “You don’t get to decide that.”
“Nope. You can’t stop me from liking you. It’s just a thing. Like the sun rising and the tides coming in.”
“You’re bored, aren’t you? You’re an obsessive sort of guy, and without the object of your obsession—aka football—to distract you, you’ve latched on to me for some reason. Is that it?”
“If that argument makes you feel safer, go with it.” The smile is still on his face. I can hear it in his voice. “The thing is, Goldie, if you don’t sleep with me now, it’ll be this niggling regret you’ll have all your life. You’ll be thirty-five and on your wedding day—”
“I’m not getting married until thirty-five?”
“Hush. This is my story. Anyway, you’re on your wedding day. The wedding march begins. The double doors open. At the end of the aisle stands some pasty-faced groom you settled on. In the back of your mind, you think, I wonder what Matty Iverson was like in bed. And then you won’t be able to walk down that aisle. You’re haunted by this lack of knowledge. You turn on your heel and run. Ultimately you ruin this poor sap’s life, make enemies out of his entire family, and spend a shitload of money you’ll never get back because you didn’t take up this opportunity when you had it.”
“That’s quite a line.”
“It’s the truth.”
I roll over and try to forget I’m lying next to the first guy I’ve been attracted to in a long time. Matt has no such problem. His gentle snores fill the air minutes later. It’s a long, frustrating night for me.
14
Lucy
I dream the dirtiest dream that night. It consists of Matt’s very large hands throwing the covers aside and then running themselves all over my body. I moan so loudly when his fingers delve between my legs, I wake myself up. Only to find him sleeping next to me like a baby.
I place my hand over my galloping heart and breathe a huge sigh of relief that I haven’t woken him up and that I haven’t done what I warned him against—middle-of-the-night creeping.
Matt’s still sleeping and hasn’t moved an inch since last night.
I give myself a few moments to gawk at him. He has a hard, hot body that apparently does not need any covers because the sheet and blanket are kicked down around his thighs, revealing an expanse of golden skin stretched over muscled shoulders, chest, and abs. He’s an athlete, I remind myself. They’re all hardbodies. But as much as I tell myself he’s not my type, I can’t keep the lie in my head long enough to be convincing.
In my dreams, he was exactly my type. Probably my only type. I shudder and try to shake free of the vision of him touching me, kissing me.
His right arm is thrown across his forehead and his left rests across his abdomen. His fingertips are touching the waistband of his underwear and I’m helpless to stop my eyes from drifting downward where an impressive morning erection is barely held inside the stretchy fabric. My fingers itch to reach over and palm that bulge.