Rate a Date by Monica Murphy Page 0,36

to take over the entire corporation someday. He’s like the vice president or something.” She glances around the bar, her face full of wonder before her gaze returns to mine. “Can you imagine owning something as big as this? Multiple times over?”

“No, I can’t.” I think of the owners of NFL franchises. What’s that like, being able to own an actual sports team? That’s some mad money right there.

“Sometimes I wonder what it’s like to be filthy rich.” There’s so much longing in her voice, I can’t help but lean toward her, wanting to hear more. “I’m not complaining. I do well for myself. I make decent money being a hairstylist. But I will never know what it’s like to be a millionaire.”

I do. I know what that’s like. I’m a millionaire many times over. I’m not the highest paid linebacker in the NFL, but I’ve been at it for a while, and while I know I’m looking at my career ending here in the next season or two, I am set up very comfortably, thanks to the giant contract I signed after my first season with the Raiders.

I’m a lucky bastard and I know it.

“Money isn’t everything,” I tell her, and it’s easy for me to say that. I have more than I could ever spend in my lifetime. Well, I could run right through it if I was a complete idiot who bought expensive cars and giant mansions for my friends and family. But I haven’t done that. I don’t plan on doing it either.

I paid off my parents’ mortgage, but that’s really it. Oh, and everyone in my family makes out pretty nicely for their birthdays and at Christmas.

“True, but it would be nice to never have to worry about it, you know?” She smiles at me and I stare at her in return, dumbfounded by her beauty. “I bet you meet a lot of guys like that, what with your job.”

My job? Wait a minute…

Oh right. I’m a trainer.

“Yeah,” I say, glancing around the room, wishing for a cocktail waitress to appear. I need a drink. Desperately. “We don’t really discuss money when we’re together though.”

“Of course not! You’re too busy working on their fitness.” She smiles and reaches for me, settling her warm hand on my arm. “Wow. Your bicep is, like, rock hard.”

She presses her fingers into my skin, essentially feeling me up. If she keeps touching me like that, there will be something else that’s rock hard too.

I really, really need to get my sexual appetite under control. Nothing like that is gonna happen tonight. In my dreams will we get naked and get busy.

“I work out a lot,” I tell her, trying to think of other things. Like my grandma. Like math. Or cauliflower—I hate that shit. Or our defensive coach, who’s an ugly son of a bitch and yells a lot for no good reason.

Anything to get my mind out of the gutter.

“I bet you do,” she murmurs. She’s petting me now. Her fingers are trailing down my arm, touching my bare skin, and a jolt runs through me, making me achingly aware of her closeness. “Like every day, huh?”

“Especially during—” I clamp my lips shut.

I was going to say during football season.

“Hello! Can I get you two something to drink?”

Eleanor drops her hand from my arm, and I immediately miss her touch. We both turn to find a tall, thin brunette standing in front of our table, a friendly smile on her face. Our server is a knockout. She’s wearing a lot of makeup, though. And the top she’s wearing is so low-cut, her tits are ready to spill out. I discreetly check her out, but don’t feel anything.

I glance over at Eleanor, and feel…

Everything.

Damn, I am in big, big trouble with this girl.

“Ooh, hold on. Let me look at your drink specials.” Eleanor grabs the tiny menu propped on our table and starts scanning it, squinting so much, she moves the menu closer to the candle so she can see. “Do you know what you want, Mitch?”

Realization dawns in the server’s eyes and she points at me. “Aren’t you…”

I shake my head once, my expression like stone as I meet her gaze. I’m doing my best to communicate with just my eyes, and I have no idea if it’s working. Thankfully, Eleanor is still looking over the menu and doesn’t notice. “I’ll take whatever beer you’ve got on tap.”

The server frowns. “Do you have a preference?”

“Surprise me,” I say