forward before quickly righting himself. “Calm down, I’m kidding. I have no intention of hurting the boy.” There’s a pause. “Yet.”
Silence descends before Dad barks out another laugh. “I’m joking! Sheesh. Everyone is so serious. There’s no reason for concern.” The smile drops off his face as he narrows his eyes at the baseball player. “There’s no reason to be concerned, is there, Justin?”
Justin shakes his head. “No, sir.”
“Good.”
This was a mistake.
Before I can offer up a protest, Dad steers my date from the living room into the study, sealing them inside his home office. I jump when the lock clicks into place and gape at the closed door for about twenty seconds. I’m tempted to stalk over and bang on the wood until Dad opens it so I can drag Justin out again.
I never should have brought him home. This will definitely be the last time it happens. The only guy Dad doesn’t mind having around is—
I glance at the tall boy with the long blond hair.
Boy is probably the wrong term to use as a descriptor. Rowan Michaels is definitely all man.
Please tell me I didn’t just think that.
Guilty.
Oh, so guilty.
“So,” he says, stuffing his hands deep inside the pockets of his khaki shorts.
I clear my throat, unable to rip my gaze from his. I’m caught in the crosshairs of those ocean blue depths. It’s disconcerting. “So.”
He points to the couch. “Want to sit down?”
My brow furrows as I throw another concerned glance toward the study. “I guess.” Hesitantly I move toward the well-worn tan microfiber couch that has seen better days before settling gingerly at one end. Instead of sitting at the opposite side, so there’s a fair amount of distance between us, Rowan drops down next to me. He’s so close that his thigh grazes mine. A little zing of unwanted attraction scampers down my spine, and I grit my teeth in a feeble attempt to ignore the sensation.
Over the years, I’ve made it a point to never be alone with Rowan. Now that I am, I have no idea what to do. I search my brain for something to say, but it comes up empty. The silence that stretches only ratchets up my nerves.
It’s almost a relief when he says, “Big game tomorrow, huh?”
Whatever you do, don’t look at him.
Even though I tell myself to resist the temptation, it’s like an involuntary reflex. Staring at Rowan feels suspiciously like gazing at the sun. It’s dangerous to my health. Any moment, my retinas will turn to dust.
“Yup.” I fiddle nervously with the hem of my shorts, wishing they stretched further down my legs. “UNC.”
“I’ve watched a little bit of game film,” he throws out casually. “Lookout for number fifty-five, and you’ll do fine.”
My eyes widen before flicking to his. “You watched game film?”
Of soccer?
Why would he do that?
His admission sends a cascade of warmth flooding through me. It takes everything I have inside to stomp it out.
He shrugs, and his muscles dance beneath his T-shirt. “I had a little time between classes, and I was curious to see what UNC looked like this season.”
I...have no response to that.
“One of their midfielders, number thirty-one, is out with an injury.”
Ummm...yeah, I know. Coach and I had a lengthy discussion about it this afternoon. I just never expected him to realize it, too. I blink and attempt to regain my equilibrium. At every turn, Rowan manages to throw me off-balance. He shifts, stretching his arm across the back of the couch. When the tips of his fingers brush against my shoulder, it sends a thousand tiny shivers scurrying across my flesh.
What the hell is going on here?
Why is my body reacting like this?
“It won’t be an easy win,” he continues, as if unaware of the anxiety spiking through me, “but I think you guys will pull it off in the end if you play with an offensive strategy in mind.”
Soccer.
Right.
We’re discussing soccer. Tomorrow’s game, to be specific.
Focus, Demi!
I blink, attempting to rein in all the strange, out of control feelings he stirs up inside me.
Nope. I can’t do it. I can’t sit here and nonchalantly shoot the shit with Rowan. He makes me nervous. Twitchy. I have a difficult time concentrating when he’s this close. More than anything, I don’t want to feel this way about him.
Before I realize it, I’m popping off the couch like a Jack-in-the-Box and jumping to my feet. “I need something to drink.” That being said, I race out of the living room like