“Are you kidding? He’s a legend. They made a movie about him. But that’s not even the point. The point is –”
“I thought you were my groupie.”
There’s a frown sitting between his brows. A few of his messy strands are dancing over that deep line and I’m so confused right now. “What?”
He flexes his grip on the railing, his frown growing deeper. “I don’t like sharing.”
“I… What?”
“I don’t want you watching his clips.”
I open my mouth to respond. Although honestly, I don’t know what to say because this conversation is bizarre. But then suddenly, it makes sense.
Maybe he’s jealous.
Which is so freaking ridiculous that I could laugh again. But his thick frown and that clamped jaw and dark eyes with which he’s staring down at me, all irritated, makes me stop.
It makes me put my hands on the railing too, his fists touching mine. “Are you jealous?”
His brows snap even closer. “Are you going to stop watching his clips?”
“But he’s an excellent player.”
“Yeah, but he’s got nothing on me.”
Why is he so arrogant? Why do I like it?
And how did we go from talking about his smoking to this?
I arch my back and his eyes move. They stare at the pale patch of my belly and I wonder if he was one of the guys who wanted a piece of that, a piece of me.
I wonder if his jealousy extends from soccer to other things.
I know it’s stupid but I still wonder.
“Isn’t that a little arrogant?” I bite my lip.
He raises his eyes; his pupils look all burnt up and charred. “Not if it’s the truth.”
I feel something flutter in my bare stomach, something tugging and pulling just behind my naked navel.
Reaching up, I push back the messy strands of his hair because I know he doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like messy, wild things.
The Blond Arrow.
His jaw ticks at my action but I smile. “Okay, I won’t watch him. I’ll only watch you.”
As soon as I say it, he grabs my wrist and takes it off his forehead. I fist my fingers when I see something flash across his face, something unfathomable but dark.
“So tell me something,” he rasps, holding my wrist captive. “For a girl who works really hard for her money, a girl who had a job. Who’d take off her clothes to return the t-shirt she stole because she’s clearly not a thief, why did you steal that money? Where were you going that was so urgent that it couldn’t wait?”
My heart starts banging. “What? Why?”
“Was there a guy involved?”
“I’m sorry?”
Another flash of darkness passes through his features. “Was it a guy? Some loser like Beckham who you thought was so wonderful you had to run after him?”
The strands of his hair that I’d pushed away not five seconds ago have come out to play again. They graze over his lined forehead, making him look so unkempt and so wild.
So beautiful.
“Why?” I ask, twisting my hand in his grip but not to get free – I never wanna get free from his hold – but to feel his strength, his dominating fingers on me.
“I’m your friend, aren’t I? A friend should know these things. So tell me. Were you running away for a guy?”
Yes.
I was running away for him. So I could get out of his life, leave him alone before my love makes me do something drastic. Before my secret love ruins his love.
I raise my chin and his necklace hits my jaw. “What if there is?”
His own jaw clenches as he says, “Then I’d like to ask him something.”
“What?”
He runs his eyes over my body.
My wild, wind-whipped hair, the tingling tip of my nose, my parted and painted lips. My heaving chest under his vintage leather. My bare belly.
He stares at each part of me like it belongs to him. Like he can stare at those favorite little spots of his whenever and for however long he wants.
He can. He can.
But still.
It makes things happen inside my body. It makes me break out in goosebumps and it makes me bite my lip. It makes me arch my spine and makes my nipples bead.
He lifts his eyes, a flush covering his cheeks. “I’d like to ask him what the fuck is he doing, letting you run around town like this. Your friends, I understand. Maybe they’re a bunch of clueless schoolgirls like you. But what the fuck is his problem?”
I draw back. “Excuse me?”
Instead of answering me, he touches me.
With his other hand, he touches my lip again. His broad thumb is probably smudging the lipstick at the corner, but I don’t care.
I don’t care about anything right now except him and his rough thumb.
“What’s the name of this one?” he rasps.
“Dream Broken Darling.”
“You’re the darling?”
I shake my head, hypnotized. “No, he is.” You are. “I-I like sweetheart.”