Rate a Date by Monica Murphy Page 0,65

blowing. She’s so responsive, we fit together perfectly, and it’s like we can’t get enough of each other.

The entire reason I joined that dating app was to find someone. Someone I could possibly stick with for the long term. I know, it sounds ridiculous. Using a dating app to find lasting love? But hell, people do it all the time. It’s normal.

The real reason I used the Rate a Date app was to meet women who wouldn’t know who I am. I wanted to lead with me, the regular guy, versus leading with the football player everyone knows. Eleanor doesn’t have a clue I play for the Raiders and I’m worth millions. I love that she doesn’t know. That she appreciates me for me.

Well, and I think she appreciates me for my talented mouth and dick.

But now I’m stuck. I’m a liar. If and when she finds out what I’m doing, she’ll probably think I’m leading her on, and that makes me feel like absolute shit.

I’m not leading her on, but damn it, I’m lying to her. And that sucks. I care about her—yes, already. I do. When she finds out the truth, will she be mad? Will it hurt her?

Probably. And that’s the last thing I want to do.

Glancing over at her, I see she’s staring out the passenger-side window. She looks pretty in her floral printed sundress. It’s this dark yellow color that I wouldn’t find normally appealing, with little white flowers dotted all over the fabric. The bodice clings almost lovingly to her chest. The skirt is long and flowy and hides those fantastic legs. She’s currently wearing sunglasses, her still-damp hair pulled into a messy bun on top of her head.

I think of our shower earlier. How I fucked her against the tile wall. My body aches from all the sexual acrobatics we’ve twisted ourselves into. It’s been fun.

More than fun, actually.

“How much farther to your place?” she asks.

“It should only take another twenty minutes, but this traffic is awful,” I answer, frustration filling me as we inch down the street along with the millions of other cars.

Okay, it’s not millions, but you get the idea.

“I don’t know if I could ever live here,” she says, sounding sad.

“Why not?” I’m immediately hit with the image of Eleanor in my apartment. Sharing my bed. I bet she likes frilly shit. I bet she’d go all out and decorate my apartment, making it look like a woman lived there.

Would that be such a bad thing?

“Las Vegas is so hot.” She fans herself, I suppose for emphasis. “And it’s so—large. So many people. And it’s full of tourists. We get lots of tourists in Carmel, and Monterey too, but it’s not so bad. It still feels like a small town. Quaint. And the weather is amazing.”

“Yeah.” I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what she’s getting at. I’m not even close to thinking about asking her to move in with me, and she has to know that. We’ve spent actual time together only this weekend. That’s it.

But I want to spend more time with her. Definitely.

When she suggested earlier that we stay at my place, I have to admit I panicked. I don’t bring girls to my home. Ever. It feels like an invasion of privacy. Plus, I never want to get their hopes up. My past interactions with women were never serious. I was a “wham, bam, thank you ma’am” kind of man.

Now? I want to wham, bam Eleanor on a daily, if not hourly, basis. This means something. A shift in my thinking. In my emotions. I want more Eleanor.

I think she wants more me, too.

We enter my apartment forty minutes later, and I’m pulling Eleanor’s suitcase along with me while she follows. She stops short in the entryway, and when I glance over my shoulder, I can see her eyes widen as she looks about the room.

“You weren’t kidding,” she says.

There are boxes everywhere. I still need to unpack my kitchen—I don’t really cook, so what’s the point?—and the living room, though the couch is set up, along with an end table and coffee table, and of course the TV, along with my Playstation and Xbox both hooked up.

I have priorities, after all.

“Sorry.” I shut the door behind me and turn the lock, then start toward the hall, heading for my bedroom. “Come on. I’ll give you a quick tour.”

I wave my hand toward the kitchen and the living room. Throw open the door