His response strikes me as odd, but I can’t help but laugh. He doesn’t fit the mold. I like it.
“Flowers or chocolates?”
“Are you aiming for clichéd?”
“Mental note taken.” He nods, acting as if he’s writing this down. “Spiked heels or dirty sneakers?”
I look down at my three-year-old, seen-better-days Chucks. “Uh, sneakers.” The answer should be obvious considering I’m also sporting Walmart-brand jeans and a faded vintage Nirvana T-shirt.
Brock studies me a moment. “That’s the response I was hoping for. I dig different.”
I feel red paint my cheeks in a flush as his gaze stays locked on mine.
As if sensing my nervousness, he clears his throat. “First number that pops into your head?”
“Sixteen.”
“Beer or hard liquor?”
I roll my eyes. “Duh . . . both.”
He chuckles. “A Perfect Circle or Coldplay?”
“Polar opposites. They’re both awesome bands. Plus, that’s like choosing your favorite book boyfriend. You can’t.”
“Agreed, but I have no idea what a book boyfriend is. You’ve sparked my curiosity, though.”
I smile, not even about to go into detail of their importance to the hordes of women who compare them to every male on earth. “We need a full day for that topic.”
“Got ya.” He laughs, rubbing his hands together. “Vanilla, chocolate, or strawberry?”
“All three combined into one magnificent flavor.”
“A walk in the park or a day spent riding on the back of a motorcycle?”
“Have you heard of Deuce West?”
He gives me a confused look.
I smile again. “Definitely a day spent on the back of a motorcycle.”
“Very cool,” he replies. “Summer or winter?”
“Winter. I hate the heat.”
“Christmas or Thanksgiving?”
“I’ll take a turkey over a fat man wearing red any day.” That garners me a smile.
“Favorite sexual position?”
Sneaky. I like. I almost spill that any position—in any public or private place—is just fine by me, but I stick to innocence and widen my eyes.
“I figured I’d try,” he admits with a smirk. “Favorite food?”
“Sushi.”
He crinkles his nose.
“For real?” I ask, rocked that any human in their right mind wouldn’t want to consume it every day. “You don’t like sushi?”
“I only like certain . . . female things raw.” He wiggles his brows.
“Hardy-har-har,” I tease, giving him a look that tells him I know exactly what he’s referring to.
Pussy—not money—is the root of all evil.
“You’re quick.” He swings his chair around to my side of the table, straddles it, and rests his forearms on the back as he stares at me with laser-like precision. “Football or baseball?”
“Baseball all the way. Football sucks.”
His eyes widen, a frown dragging down his mouth. He looks like a lost, lonely puppy.
“What’s wrong?” I’m somewhat disturbed by the sudden change in his demeanor. “Are you an overwired, crazed football fanatic or something?”
“Captain.”
“Huh?” Now it’s my eyes that are wide. “Oh God. Not a jock. Please don’t tell me you’re a jock.”
Considering he’s sporting a polo shirt and Dockers, he doesn’t dress like a jock. He looks preppy and unjuiced by steroids. Okay, so he’s built like a jock—broad, sculpted shoulders, pumped yet lean forearms. I crane my neck and peek at his stomach, confirming that under his polo shirt exists a six-pack slab of raw muscle. Still, he could’ve gained his glorious physique by lifting weights, lifting tiny girls with fake implants, or lifting cars on impulse.
But, Jesus, not a jock.
Brock nods, a dot of a grin hinting at his lips. “I’m the university’s football captain. Does that kill any hope I’d had?”
“It comes close to it.” I nervously pick at the edge of my schedule. “Really close. Like borderline-walk-away-now close.”
Curiosity slants his brows. “And why is that?”
“It just is. But whatever. I can deal with it if you give me enough reasons to.” My thoughts travel back to the night I all but sold my virginity on a muddy high school football field to a dick named Josh Stevenson. I was fourteen and wanted beer. He was seventeen and had a fake ID.
A deal was struck.
Thank God the whole, sickening ordeal lasted less than five minutes. I guess I’d expected him to treat me like the whore I’d acted like, and that’s exactly what happened. By the next morning the rest of his teammates knew what we’d done, making sure to call me the appropriate names every time they saw me.
In a small fishing community just outside of Rivers Edge, North Carolina, I was the new girl known as the slut who’d fucked the captain of the football team for beer. I can’t recall if it was the second or third town I’d lived in by that point—I just know it as the one where my hatred of jocks, and my self-loathing for what I was morphing into, began.
I shift, uncomfortable with Brock looking at me like he’s trying to figure me out. “What?”
“I’m just happy you’re willing to tolerate me and my . . . jockiness.” He slides me a grin. “And I will give you enough reasons to deal with it.”
I sense that he wants to say something more, possibly deeper, but I don’t push.