Blake hunched her shoulders as a crowd of guys stomped all over it. “It’s the only thing that keeps my hair back.”
“We’ll find you something else that doesn’t make you look like you starred in Napoleon Dynamite, okay?”
Her eyes narrowed.
I staggered back a few steps. “Whoa.” Gripping her shoulders, I leaned in. “Did you change eye color overnight?”
“No.” Her eyes widened. “Why?” She pressed her hands to her face. “I didn’t get much sleep last night. My eyes are probably bloodshot.”
Actually, just the opposite. They were gorgeous, clearer than they’d been in class. She had a bit of green that outlined the irises. It was . . . mesmerizing.
“Ian?” Blake whispered. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” I jerked back and forced a laugh. “Just . . . let’s go. I could eat a herd of cows right now.” I clicked open a text from Lex and scanned the busy eating areas.
Lex: Every night after practice he eats at Asian Fusion. Gross. You’ll find General Tso at his usual spot.
“How’s Asian sound?” I didn’t wait for Blake to answer, just steered her toward the line and fired off an order for fried rice and something that looked like chicken but had a gray tint to it. “What do you want?”
“Nothing,” Blake said quickly.
I frowned. “You mean you want no food? None at all?”
“I, uh”—she blushed—“didn’t bring my purse with me.”
My mouth dropped open. “Holy shit . . . you own a purse?”
“Very funny.”
“Is it Guess?” I grinned.
She punched me in the arm while I kept guessing. “Tommy Hilfiger? Calvin Klein? Oh damn. Please, please tell me it’s actually a Caboodles case masquerading as a purse. That would make my entire week.”
At Blake’s blush, I knew I was close.
“Coach.” I sighed. “We’ll get you a Coach purse.”
“But that doesn’t match my clothes.”
I eyed her up and down and forced my lips shut so I wouldn’t say something else offensive. To be honest, I was damn curious about what would match her clothes and equally horrified with the possibility that she’d have an answer.
“What?” She put her hands on her hips.
“Food or no food?” The guy at the register looked like he was ready to quit.
“I already said I don’t have my purse.”
“We know,” the dude said in a bitter tone. “But I’m sure Daddy Warbucks can spot you a five.”
I rolled my eyes. “Are you hungry?”
She nodded.
I waved my hand over the register like magic. “So you eat. I’d order,” I whispered out of the corner of my mouth, “before he spits in your food.”
“Egg rolls.” She nodded again. “Four.”
“Finally,” he muttered, keying it into his register and taking my twenty. The minute money exchanged hands, I felt the tingle again.
It wasn’t a good tingle, like the kind you feel postorgasm.
It was a bad tingle, like the kind you get when a girl reaches for your balls in an unfriendly manner.
With a heavy swallow, I moved down the line, frowning. Was it possible? Was that meal the first one I’d purchased for a woman since high school?
I stared at my receipt like it was a death sentence, then quickly shoved it into my pocket. Out of sight, out of mind. It wasn’t a date. I wasn’t feeding Blake because I liked her. I was feeding her simply because I was hungry, and I felt guilty eating in front of her.
“Are you okay?” Blake touched my shoulder.
“Of course.” Keeping my cool, I waited for the food, then carried our tray toward the back table. As we made our way through the scattered crowd, whispering commenced. I never tired of it.
Of the way girls stared at my body.
The vibe they gave off when I walked a little too close, letting them get a good whiff of my cologne, or gave them the “accidental touch” as I rubbed my body against theirs in order to get to my spot.
“You’re disgusting,” Blake announced once we sat.
Steam billowed off the food. “Is that how you repay your pimp during your hungry time of need?”
“Not my pimp.” She scowled. “And how can you do that? Lead girls on like that? Every single one of them is still staring, whispering, staring more. One of them took a picture.”
“Two, actually,” I said with a shrug.
“Why?” Blake shoved my plate off the tray. “It’s not like you’re famous or something.”
My hands froze.
Actually, my entire body seized. It wasn’t necessarily in regret. But she touched on a sore subject, one she apparently didn’t know existed. The damn phantom pain returned. Clearing my throat, I reached for my bottled water while Blake continued to stare me down like I was a puzzle that needed solving.
“Are you?” she finally asked.
“Was.” Where the hell was the soy sauce? I was searching beneath the napkins for the tiny packet when Blake handed me one. “Thanks.”
“Are you going to just leave it like that? Or are you going to explain?”
“Not much to explain.” Shit, it felt like a date. I started sweating immediately. Again, this was why I didn’t share meals with clients! It made them think we had something real, something personal. Damn it! “My sophomore year, I got an exemption to enter the NFL draft. I played for the Seahawks but I was”—the sound of metal crunching together jolted me out of my waking nightmare—“injured . . . So here I am.”