Football players are assholes. I know; I'm related to their king. My older, and annoyingly overprotective, brother Jake is the star quarterback at Santa Cruz High School. I love him but hate living in his shadow. Everyone worshiping the air he breat...
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Ellie was attracted to me.
And I would exploit that angle to my full advantage.
She was also too easy to tease. With zero poker face, emotional reactions oozing out of those beautiful eyes, and too many groans of disgust to count, I was under her skin. By the brush-offs she gave Jake's friends, I assumed she was more conditioned to guy bullshit than the average girl, and my normal approach would be met with her cold indifference... and I was right.
Based on a higher squeak in her voice, Ellie responded more to my blunt lines and taunts than compliments. So, I burrowed deeper, one teasing line and 'baby' after another. Unconventional? Maybe. Effective? Absolutely.
I didn't offer a date. Ever. Ellie could wear a burlap bag as long as she showed up and Jake toiled in agony every minute that I whisked her away and returned her home in tears.
She wasn't going to make it easy, and an unfamiliar thrill rushed through me. Quiet and soft, her voice cast the same calm as background music in a fancy restaurant. And yet, a snarky, confident girl lived in that tiny body, behind those large, beautiful eyes. Tease me with a not-kiss?
It worked.
When she knelt between my legs, she wiped all logic out of my brain. My heart pounded out of my chest. Retribution against Jake? Poof, gone. By the grace of her cheek, those full lips had to be warm and soft. Her small hands rested on my shoulders and parted lips a breath's temptation away – fuck, I wanted to kiss her. Badly.
"I wouldn't kiss you if you were the last asshole on Earth... Not in a million years."
I almost nutted myself from her confident, direct tone in my ear. Yeah, gross, but this girl –a damn stranger– wedged herself under my skin.
Dial it back, Hightower. She was a girl. A girl who wanted me too, although not ready to admit it. From her furious blush to her chest pitching with ragged breaths, she wanted that kiss too.
Focus. Stick to the plan. Game six. Nothing else.
"You're home early," Mom greeted me from her reclined position on the living room sofa. She set aside her reader and planted her feet on the floor. "Did you forget about Brody?"
"No." I rolled my eyes. 'Head down, run your ass off, and do what he says,' was my advice. The possibility of Harrison hazing him burned a hole in my chest, but I didn't want to discuss that with her. "I told him to make sure you sit in the back bleachers during games."
"Logan Alexander!" Her hands met her hips. "Cheese and rice, I swear..."
She launched into some lack of disrespect spiel that I tuned out. Vocal was an understatement about Mom. Adjacent towns could hear her during my games. Her sharp blue eyes saw straight through my bullshit, her nose never stopped sniffing in my business, and her heart was big enough to accept blame for Dad's faults. The most expressive woman I knew was cursed with zero filters. And it was damn embarrassing.
