Eventually, her lips curve. “So what are you? Some sort of self-help guru?”
I shrug, all of a sudden embarrassed. “Not even. I just know when to—believe in myself.”
“Is that how you became a professional football player?” she asks. “By believing in yourself?”
“That and working damn hard every single day. I lived and breathed football all through high school and college,” I say, grabbing my silverware and starting in on my steak again.
“So what you’re telling me is that you’re the type of man to go after what you want,” she continues.
“Yeah. Because if I don’t, someone else will,” I say, taking another bite of my steak.
“Hmm.” She taps her index finger against her lips before she grabs her wineglass. “I like that,” she says before she takes a drink.
Pride flashes through me. Something about having her approval is a total turn on. Crazy, right? Like, why should I care what this woman thinks? She’s hot and I’m attracted to her, but I know, this won’t go anywhere, and that’s facts. I’m leaving this city in a few days, and I’ll never see her again, unless it’s over social media or text.
Susanna lives in another country, for the love of God.
I can’t pursue this.
We spend the remainder of our dinner discussing my football career. She seems truly fascinated, asking lots of questions, curious about what position I play and everything I did to get where I am today. I tell her everything I can remember, probably too much, but it’s not every day I have a woman interested in football. Interested in everything I’ve done over the years.
I mean, yeah, there are women who claim they’re interested and like to talk about the big football player, but it always feels like they’re faking it. It’s like they think they have to pretend like they’re into me, or otherwise it feels like they’re just using me for my body or my fame.
Pretty sure most of the time that’s exactly what they’re doing.
She gets me talking about myself so much, I realize as we’re leaving the restaurant that I never really asked much about her, which makes me feel like a shit, and I tell her so as we climb in the back of the Uber Black car I ordered.
“You must think I’m a total ass,” I say with a shake of my head as the car pulls away from the curb.
“What do you mean? Why would I think that?” She touches my forearm, seemingly concerned.
I feel her touch as if she branded me. My entire body flashes hot.
All because she touched me on my freaking arm.
“I went on and on about myself and never once asked a question about you. Talk about a jerk thing to do,” I mutter, my voice extra gruff. Maybe it’s the beer I’ve been drinking, but I feel extremely bad. Like over-the-top bad, which is ridiculous.
“There’s no need for you to apologize. Really.” She smiles up at me and I stare at her, hypnotized. Christ, she’s pretty. In that untouchable-yet-I-just-want-to-mess-her-up kind of way. “I enjoyed learning so much about you.”
The sincerity in her voice rings true. She means it.
“Maybe, uh, we could talk some more.” I hesitate, wondering if I’m asking too much. “There’s a nice bar back at my hotel.”
Her delicate brows lift the slightest bit, indicating my question has surprised her. But I had to ask.
I had to.
“It’s okay,” I say when she still hasn’t answered me. “Maybe another time.”
There will be no other time. I will play my game, I will leave this country, and I will never see her again. This is a one shot thing. I know it.
She knows it.
“No.” She squeezes my forearm, and I resist the urge to haul her into my arms. “I mean, yes. I’d love to go back to your hotel with you.”
“Your father won’t mind?” Aw jeez, I’m asking about her dad like we’re in high school or something.
She laughs and shakes her head. “No, of course he won’t mind. It’s not like I live with my parents. I have my own flat.”