He touches my arm lightly, but I jerk at the contact—electric and molten. He glances from my arm to my face.
“But you did,” he says. “You played because you wanted to kiss me, too.”
The truth floats between us on balmy summer air, and I can’t draw an easy breath. I bite my lip, debating what I should tell him—how much to reveal.
“That’s true.” I meet his eyes. “But it doesn’t make a difference about what happens next.”
“I’d like it to happen again, preferably without a roomful of people watching,” he says, wry humor curling the edges of his sensual mouth.
I flash him a rueful smile. “I don’t think so.”
Disappointment skitters across his face before he tucks it neatly away. He’s a man of control, discipline evident in the powerful, sinewy arms JP loves so much. In the flat stomach and the unyielding line of his mouth. His body is a well-conditioned machine—a fire-forged weapon in the battles he fights on court. How would it feel to demolish that control? I bet I could do it, but not without being crushed myself.
“Do I get an explanation?” he asks.
“Maybe I’m just not attracted to you.”
He quirks a brow, skepticism etched into the strong planes of his face. “At the risk of sounding arrogant, we both know that’s bullshit.”
“Okay then I’ll keep it real. I’m off dick right now,” I say abruptly, really hoping my crassness scares him away.
“Oh.” He nods as if I said I’m giving up dairy instead of dick. “Well what about the rest of me?”
“What?” I’m at a loss for half a second. I’m supposed to be the one throwing him off. “I don’t know about the rest of you.”
“My point exactly. You could get to know the rest of me over the summer and we can discuss my dick later.”
In spite of myself, my lips twitch. He twitches back, but the humor slowly drains from his expression. “Look, I won’t pretend I’m not attracted you. I think I’ve made that abundantly,” he says, allowing a self-deprecating smile, “and embarrassingly clear.”
I watch, waiting for him to go on.
“But my life’s kind of a wreck right now,” he says. “I don’t know how much you know about me.”
He pauses, caution in his unspoken query.
“Very little,” I admit. “I don’t follow basketball at all.”
Something like relief crosses his face before he shutters it. “I’m glad you don’t know a lot about me,” he says. “That means I can tell you myself. Not tonight, though. Suffice to say I’m coming off a very messy, very public divorce.”