by Cora Carmack
“Why would you want to hang out with me? I’m likely to be a roaring bitch for the rest of the night.”
So honest. And gorgeous. It’s a rare combination. I have to remind myself again that I don’t have the time to really appreciate this particular rarity.
“What can I say? I have a thing for screamers.”
Her blush had calmed, but now it detonates across her cheeks again, and I’m laughing before I manage to hold it back.
“I’m kidding, little lioness. I’m not looking to hook up with you. I just find your honesty refreshing. That makes you better company than every person I’ve run across tonight.”
She watches another light switch on, just two rooms away, and lifts her chin. She seems to come to a decision. Then she braces her hands on the railing, hefts herself up, and throws a long leg over the balcony’s edge.
“Holy shit!” I jump to my feet, sprinting to stand beneath her. She has both legs over by the time I’m standing under her, her toes tucked carefully along the ledge on the outside of the railing.
“Dallas, be careful.”
Her legs look even longer now that they aren’t blocked by the balcony, and her pale skin almost glows in the moonlight.
“You better not be looking up my skirt right now,” she says.
“I’m not!”
Anymore.
She twists her head around, and her eyes meet mine, and I am so caught. Even at night, the bright green of her gaze stands out like emeralds against her porcelain skin. I note, with a wry grin, that her underwear is the same color.
“Does this make me a coward?” she asks, glancing in the direction of the seeking voice.
“You’re currently dangling off a balcony. Coward was not the word I was thinking of.”
She grins, a vibrant gleam in her eye, and before I can smile back in response, she lets go and starts dropping toward the ground.
“Oh shit!”
I throw my arms up while simultaneously jerking my head away so I can’t be accused of looking up her skirt again. Her knee makes contact with my shoulder, and when I try to catch her I end up catching her skirt instead, and then I’m tipping backward with her somewhat in my arms. My ass hits first, then the top of her head cracks against my chin a second before her weight slams into my midsection.
“Fuck,” I groan at the same time she declares, “You are an idiot.”
With one hand pressed to the top of her head, she uses the other to push herself up enough to look at me, her elbow planted firmly below the socket of my shoulder.
“I could have landed that on my own. It was one floor.”
My ribs feel on the verge of caving in, and I force a shaky breath with her weight still on top of me.
“I didn’t know. You could have broken an ankle or something.” She shifts, and I groan. “Instead I broke my ass.”
She laughs again, the same silent one I saw her give on the balcony, and I catch sight of one lone dimple on her right cheek. She lets go of her head to shift herself higher, and before she can climb off me, I reach out to touch her forehead. She stills, and those large green eyes peer down at me. I trace my fingers across her skin, brushing through the bangs swept across her forehead.
“You okay? You hit my chin pretty hard.”
In response, she just reaches out and traces my chin in the same manner. In the silent night, I can hear the short stubble along my jaw rasp against her skin. She shivers.
Her eyes are open, and I swear I can see every thought in them. She runs her finger one way across my jaw, and then back, and I can tell she’s trying to decide if she likes the facial hair. Then her eyes touch on my lips briefly before flicking away, and then back again, like she knows she shouldn’t be looking, but then doesn’t really care.
And for all the promises I made her (and myself), I think about kissing her. I think about it, and I fist my hands against her back to keep from following through. Her tongue darts out to wet her lips, and they glisten, calling to me. I’m breathing heavy, and I hope she just chalks it up to having the air knocked out of me, not to the reemergence of the mental image of her legs wrapped around my waist that’s the true culprit.
“Dallas?” The voice is in the room directly above us, and we hear heavy footsteps stomp toward the balcony door.
I reach for her hips to shift her off of me, and I touch bare skin. We realize at the same time that when I’d grabbed her skirt as she fell, I’d tugged it up somewhere around her waist, leaving her bottom half mostly bare against me.
Panic flits through her eyes. In her haste to cover herself, she sits up, rushing to pull down her skirt, which leaves one knee on either side of my hips. My hands are still frozen against her warm skin, now hidden beneath her skirt. I stiffen and swallow a groan because I like her draped across me. Entirely too much. And if she doesn’t move off me quickly, she’s going to know it.
Her name comes again, from outside on the balcony this time. I let my hands fall away from her hips, and I don’t mean for my fingertips to brush against her thighs, but I’m certainly not sorry. Not when she lets out a breathy noise that I might have called a moan if she didn’t fix me with a glare half a second later. She pulls herself up, more gracefully than I would have thought possible. Her face drawn tight in anger, she steps over me, and I cover my eyes with a groan too late not to catch another brief forbidden glance of emerald green.
This girl is going to be the death of me.
As I pull myself up to a sitting position just below the balcony and out of sight, she turns around to square off against the guy above.
“Pretty girl, what are you doing down there?”
She doesn’t answer. Instead she crosses her arms over her chest and gives him a cold look. “Did your buddy ever give you that hint you were wanting? Because if not, I have one. Not in a million years, asshole.”
She doesn’t hesitate over the curse word, and I barely resist the urge to applaud her improvement.
“Don’t be mad, pretty girl.” The guy actually sounds a little worried. Hell, I’m a little worried, and her anger isn’t even directed at me. “That was just guy talk. We were being stupid. Nothing serious.”
Her expression morphs from cold to fiery, and I have a feeling that if she could get back up on that balcony, she would make that guy use his own small intestine as a straw.
“Stay away from me. I’ll keep my mouth shut about tonight, but bother me again, and I might just feel the need to unburden my worries. Got it?”
The dick doesn’t reply, and the balcony door opens and slams shut once more.
She’d more than held her own, but I can’t help being unsettled by what I heard. What had that dude done to her? And who was she threatening to tell that had him bailing without even a reply?
I climb to my feet slowly, my back complaining and my ass bitching like nobody’s business. Trying not to grimace, I ask, “You okay?”
She pulls her gaze away from the now-empty balcony and focuses on me.
“Better.”
Her eyes turn wary, and I’m pretty sure she’s thinking about the skirt mishap. Her hands confirm it when they slip into two hidden pockets at her hips and casually push down to make sure her skirt is as long as she can make it. Fortunately for me, that’s still not that long.
I mimic her, placing my own hands into my pockets. A cold front is just creeping into town, the first hint of fall, so it’s cold enough to keep everyone inside, but not so cold that it’s unbearable. Hell, I hadn’t been cold since the minute I’d laid eyes on Dallas.
For a few seconds, we just stare at each other, unsure how to proceed. She reaches up and gathers her thick red hair into her hands like she’s going to pull it up into a ponytail. Then she seems to think better of it, releasing it until it settles in crimson drifts across her shoulders. I fist my hands in my pockets, nearly overwhelmed with the urge to wrap that long hair around my fingers. She links her hands behind her back, and it draws my attention to her slim, tall frame.
And damn, I really need to get a handle on this.
When we do speak, it’s in a rush and at the same time.
“What were you doing out here alone?”
“So, you jump off balconies often?”
We apologize in sync, and then laugh together, too.
I leave the shadows of the balcony and cross to her. “I needed some space to think. I just transferred to Rusk from a junior college, and it’s not as easy to settle in as I thought it would be.”
“What junior college?”
I shove my hands deeper into my pockets. I hadn’t meant to tell her about that. Most people are weird when I mention junior college, like I am somehow lesser than because I went there first. But she is so open and honest, I didn’t even think about filtering myself before I spoke.
“Westfield.”
She smiles. “I have a few friends who went to Westfield and are planning to transfer here after a year or two. It’s pretty smart, really. So much cheaper to get the basics out of the way there first.”
Her smile is genuine, and I’ve not felt this at ease since I set foot on this campus a few weeks ago to officially try out for the team. “So what about you? Balcony jumping a habit? Favorite pastime?”
She tilts her head to the side and scrunches her nose up cutely before shaking her head. “Not so much. Probably not the smartest thing I’ve ever done either.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Oh really? What happened to your whole Carson, you’re an idiot. It was only one floor bit?”
She bites back a smile before asking, “Carson?”
I hadn’t told her my name before? Oh, right. I was too busy getting my tailbone broken and accidentally undressing her.
“Well, Carson. Normally, I’m much more graceful than . . .” She laughs before adding, “All of that.” She circles her hand, gesturing toward the general vicinity where we’d ended up after my botched attempt at catching her.
I step up beside her, and I’m close enough to her now that I can see the way her eyelashes brush against her cheeks when she blinks. And I must be insane because just the simple act of her blinking has me staring, dumbstruck.
I can deny myself all I want, but one thing I cannot deny is just how fucking gorgeous this girl is. And exactly the kind of distraction I’m supposed to be staying away from.
I’m sure there are plenty of people who go to junior college because it’s cheaper or the smart thing to do. And yeah, the cheaper thing definitely helped. A lot.
But mostly I went because I didn’t get accepted into any state schools, and my high school team hadn’t been good enough to get the kind of exposure I needed to land a football scholarship. So Dad and I had made a plan. One year at Westfield—get my grades up, play football there, train every spare second, reach out to the coach at Rusk, and nab a walk-on spot. Eventually, the goal is to leverage that spot into something more permanent, something with a scholarship.
So far the plan is working perfectly. Right on track.
But the hardest part is standing right in front of me.
Don’t get distracted by a girl.
That’s Dad’s number one rule, and he’s probably right.
It’s going to take everything I have to keep my grades up here. And I don’t exactly have it easy on the field, considering I’m playing second string to Levi Abrams. The guy won two high school state championships, and still holds the high school state record for all-time leading passer. He was redshirted the year before last, his freshman year, and though he had decent numbers in his first season last year, the team as a whole had a disappointing year.
Normally that might have given me a little hope.
But considering the university’s new coach was the one to coach Levi to those two state championships in high school, I figure I’m shit out of luck.
I’m sure one of the reasons he was hired was to get Levi back on his game.
Which is why I give myself a break and let myself step a little closer to Dallas. I can afford to get distracted for one night. How much could it hurt?
“So what did that guy do to piss you off? You know . . . just so I don’t make the same mistake.”
“Unless you’re lying to me and trying to trick me into sleeping with you . . . you should be good.”
“So what if I’m up-front about trying to get you to sleep with me . . . Does that still get me yelled at?”
I expected a blush, but I don’t get one. Her face is carefully blank.
“I thought you weren’t trying to hook up with me.”
“Just keeping my options open. I like to be prepared for all possibilities.”
She rolls her eyes. “You can be as up-front as you want. I can promise I will be, too.”
There’s a devilish glint in her eye, and I wonder how many hearts this girl has broken with her honesty. Not that I’m worried about my heart. I’m more concerned with the hard-on I can’t get to subside with her so close to me.
“Then in the interests of honesty, I should say I’m trying really hard not to kiss you.”
She straightens, and the strand of hair she was lazily twirling drops from her grasp.
“Why would you tell me that?”
“So that when I slip up and break my promise, you’ll at least know I tried.”
Chapter 4
Dallas
I roll my eyes, not because I’m annoyed, but because it gives me time to think.
And I desperately need time to think.
I wouldn’t say I’d been entirely sheltered growing up. I did have Stella, after all. But being the coach’s daughter affected the way people treated me. Sure, guys made sexual jokes, but never to my face, and never with a devastatingly handsome grin to back it up.
I stare down at our feet—mine have fallen into third position of their own accord and his boots are scuffed and muddy. I wouldn’t have pegged him for country, not with his university sweatshirt and stylishly ripped jeans, but the boots don’t lie.
“Stop thinking so hard,” he says. “You’re giving me a headache.”
“I can’t just turn it off.”
“I could distract you.” He lifts one side of his mouth in a lazy smirk, and I want to say that I am already distracted by him. No, distracted is not the word. Bulldozed seems more appropriate.
When he takes my wrist and pulls me down to sit at the base of the oak tree beside him, I’m pretty much putty in his hands. Which is annoying as all get out.
His thumb teases at my pulse point for a few seconds, and I wonder if he feels it pick up under his touch. His shoulder brushes against mine, and the shiver that runs down my spine speeds through my limbs, drawing my toes to a point.
I keep my eyes on my feet as he asks, “So, Daredevil, besides jumping off balconies, what other crazy things do you spend your time doing?”
“Hanging out in backyards with complete strangers, obviously.”
His blue eyes are practically twinkling when he nudges my shoulder and says, “I’ve had my hands up your skirt, Daredevil. I think that qualifies me as an acquaintance at least.”
I shove him away, and when he comes back laughing, his shoulder doesn’t just brush mine, but presses against me to stay.
I pull on a scowl, but it’s getting harder and harder not to smile at him. Not to mention my heart is beating so hard, it might be leaving dents in my rib cage. “Feel free to ease back on the honesty any time now.”
He leans his head back against the tree, and swivels his face toward me. “Too late. I’m addicted. It’s your fault, really.”
I turn my head toward him, and he’s closer than I expect him to be. His eyes are this incredible electric blue, and a shock wave ripples through me like his gaze carries a voltage.
It’s my eyes that drop to his lips first, just for half a second, but when I look back up his sight is trained on my mouth. There’s a drum line in my ears, and my skin feels too tight for me to properly breathe. It’s been so very long since I’ve felt like this
that I’d forgotten how consuming it is. How physical attraction really is. All my relationships began in my head first, or at least after Levi they did. I dated guys because it made sense, because they ticked all the boxes, and the attraction came later. Sometimes.
This is different. I don’t know anything about this guy except that his eyes make my mind fuzzy, and his muscled arms make my mouth water, and the things he keeps saying . . . they burn—beginning in my flushed cheeks, blazing through my blood, and curling between my legs until I feel like I have to squeeze them together just to keep from combusting on the spot.
I lean into him before I can change my mind, my whole arm lined up against his. Then our knees bump, followed by our pinkies.
His head dips down, the scruff on his chin grazing my shoulder, setting off a shiver that should be measured on the Richter scale.
I tilt my chin up, and his breath skims over my lips in a ghost of a kiss.
And that’s all I get, a phantom touch, because he pulls back with a wry grin. I try to school my expression into something detached or annoyed or bored or anything—anything other than the disappointment churning in my gut.
He’s just playing with me. Clearly. And the humiliation drowns out everything else.
I turn away, pulling up my knees in preparation to stand. I open my mouth to make an excuse, that I need to find Stella, that I need a drink, that I need electroshock therapy to jolt the stupid out of me. God, when will I learn?
I don’t even get out a word before he grips my elbow, pulling me toward him, and slams his lips against mine.
I am not the kiss-a-stranger type. I’m not even the kiss-an-acquaintance type. But I keep hearing Levi calling me an icebox. And I keep remembering the one and only time we had sex, and the horrible day after when it hadn’t saved our relationship like I’d thought it would. I’d had very little interest in physical contact since then, and I hate that Levi still controls a part of my life even all these years later.
But this . . . Levi doesn’t have control of this because I’m not sure even I have control of this.
Carson’s hand smooths up from my elbow and curls around the back of my neck, pulling me even closer. He tilts my head back, positioning me just how he wants me. And though my body is a big fan of jumping on that bandwagon (and I totally plan to), my brain feels the need to remind him, “I’m still not sleeping with you.”
