seem to have that problem, except when he’s called out on it.
“Are you talking about the fact that you’re single?”
He lifts one of his broad shoulders in reply, which answers the question for me: Buzz Wallace is lonely. Does that mean he hates being single or is just lonely because of it? Is he looking? Does he want a serious relationship, or only to fuck around?
“When was your last serious relationship?”
Another shrug. “I’ve never had one.”
Red flag, red flag! “Why?”
I know, I know—it’s so rude to ask. In fact, I read a magazine article online once that put it in the top five things not to ask on a first date, and here I am, blurting it out. Correction: this is not a date, so it doesn’t count as being rude.
“Are you serious?” He sets down the fork he’s been plowing through the refried beans with. “What self-respecting, nice, honest, wholesome girl would want to date me?” He holds a hand up to halt any reply I’m about to give him. “Trust me, I’ve tried. I took a kindergarten teacher out once—she couldn’t deal with the fans.”
I glance around; people are watching us, but no one has come over to ask for autographs or photos, which has been really nice.
“So she dumped me after three dates, even though I thought things were great. And let’s not forget the fact that it took me years to make it to the pros—I wasn’t drafted out of college like most of the guys on the team. I redshirted in college, busted my balls in the farm teams. Practiced nonstop—and when I say nonstop, I mean I don’t even know how many hours a week. I was piss-ass broke, had no contract and no money, and almost had to move back home and live with my parents.” He shudders.
My mouth almost falls open at this admission, but I clamp it shut.
He’s on a roll now, verbal diarrhea spewing out of him like some confessional at church. “And now? I can’t seem to get away from gold diggers—they’re at every club, hanging out at the stadium, every bar we try to escape to just for a relaxing drink. Fake tits and Botox and injected lips and why can’t I just find someone decent to like me for who I am?”
I stare.
No, I’m actually gaping at him. Wide-eyed, slack-jawed disbelief. What is he saying? That he wants someone normal? Not a trophy wife with giant boobs and extensions? Not that there is anything wrong with that—those women are beautiful. It just sounds more to me like he wants wholesome and…sweet.
“Hollis?”
“Mm?” I mutter, barely able to compose a sentence.
“I have something to ask you.”
I manage a joke. “No I will not marry you. We’ve been over how I don’t want to be Hollis Wallace.”
“Ha ha, funny.” He stirs the straw around his glass of ice water. “After the games this week, I was going to head down to see my parents, and I told my mom I was seeing someone because I thought it would make her happy, and now she wants to meet my girlfriend.”
“Is your mom okay?” I clutch my chest. That poor woman must be suffering!
“What do you mean?”
“Is this her…dying wish? To see you married off before she takes her last breath?” Oh gosh, what if it is? How can I say no?
Buzz’s handsome face contorts, puzzled. “No—my mom is fine, she just harps on us a lot to settle down. What would make you think she was dying?”
“You asked in a very dramatic manner.”
“Um, actually, no I didn’t.”
Fine. Maybe not so dramatic, but it did catch me off guard. “Are you asking me to lie to your mother’s face?”
He nods, unabashedly. “And my dad’s face.”
“Your mother will live if you are single for another weekend.”
“But I already told her about you.”
This gives me pause. “About me, specifically?”
“Yes.”
“Why would you do that?!” Is he insane? Clearly he is, since he creeps on unsuspecting women in libraries and blackmails others to have tacos with them. The shell in my mouth tastes like sandpaper, and I’d spit it out if it wasn’t considered impolite.
I want to strangle him!
“I just want my mom to be happy.”
“But she’s not dying! She will live. It is not a big deal! My parents want me to settle down, but do you see me pretending to have a boyfriend? No.”
“I beg to differ.” His brows shoot up. “That is exactly what you’re doing.”
“Oh my god! No—this is your fault! You’re