3
NATE
Admittedly, shirtless is a good look on me. So I’ve got no problem wearing next to nothing when I meet a sharp-dressed man—especially a guy who wears the hell out of dark blue pants like that. They’re clearly custom-tailored, and they hug his legs in all the right ways.
Nice and tight.
Hunter’s snug shirt teases me with a small thatch of dark hair peeking out at the top of the buttons.
But it’s his face that makes me want to send roses and chocolates to Reese Kingsley. Because holy fuck. His jawline could cut stone for Michelangelo. It’s so square, and carved, and covered in just the right amount of afternoon stubble.
Don’t even get me started on his brown eyes, though. They’re hard to look away from, dark and intense, but flecked with gold.
So I don’t look away as I toss the towel onto a bench, then extend a hand, shaking his as Reese and Jason make themselves scarce.
No, sparks don’t fly when we touch hands.
Music doesn’t swell in a chorus.
But I do make a mental note that he’s got a firm grip, and that’s kind of a basic requirement. You can tell a lot about a man from his handshake. No limp- or clammy-handed men should try to ride me.
“Nice to meet you, Hunter,” I say.
“The pleasure is definitely mine,” he says, those brown irises taking a nice stroll up and down my frame. Yup, he’s eye-fucking me, and I like it.
My gaze drifts to his noticeably toned arms—evident even under a shirt. “Too bad my time at the dunk tank is done. I would have enjoyed taunting you as you tried to take me down.”
“Is that so?” Hunter asks, laughing as I drop his hand. “And how would you have trash-talked me exactly?”
“Oh, you know. Things like sorry you can’t kick the ball. Like one does in your kind of football,” I offer.
“Because, of course, I like proper football?”
I just shrug, taking my chances. “Well, do you like soccer?”
With a light laugh, he nods. “Yes, I do.”
“I was right,” I say with a wink.
“But I have an excellent arm. So I’d have enjoyed trying to knock your arse into the water.”
“Maybe we should put that arm to the test? I’m due at the pie toss. Feel free to lob a bunch of pies my way.” I make a show of checking out a watch I don’t wear. “I’ll be there for an hour. Till three. If you wanted to swing by, say, around two fifty-five, that’d be perfect timing, if you know what I mean.”
The sexy-as-fuck Brit arches a brow. His lush, firm lips curve into a knowing grin. “Yes, Nate. I definitely know what you mean.”
I saunter past him, stopping to curl a hand around his shoulder. I lean in close, catching a whiff of his cologne, the woodsy scent going to my head. “I look forward to seeing what you can do,” I say.
Hunter’s eyes stray to my hand on his body. I don’t move it, though. Instead, I wait for him to make the next move.
“And I look forward to showing you,” he says in a low, smoldering voice that’s so deliciously sexy, it sends a jolt straight to my balls.
I take a deep breath. “Later, babe.”
I head over to the pie toss. This event just got a lot more interesting.
4
NATE
Fifty-five minutes later, I am covered in all manner of apple, berry, crust, and whipped cream.
The carnival offers a wide variety of pies at this booth; the whipped cream-filled tins are free, but the fruit ones come with a price since they’re fancier. The extra money going to charity is getting me through the pain and suffering of all this pie.
Judging from the mountain of tins at my feet, a lot of people paid extra to lob fruit pies at the pro baller here at the booth. Easily, fifty aluminum tins are scattered on the ground. I peer through the hole I stick my face in, scanning the crowds for this game. The line is thinning, though—the afternoon finally winding down.
No sign of Hunter the Englishman.
Ah well.
Win some, lose some.
But damn, I thought I’d read Hunter right and he’d swing by. Reading the secondary on an opponent’s home turf when fifty thousand fans boo you is often easier than figuring out what a dude really wants. Someday, maybe, I’ll be better at understanding men. I’ve got to be Mister Casual until then, so I don’t give too much of myself too soon. Been there, done that, and oh hell, does it hurt when someone doesn’t give back the same way.
I reach an arm around the wooden clown cutout—so not sexy—and swipe some blueberries from my eyebrow.
Waiting.
Just a few more minutes, and my time will be up. Then, I can head home, enjoy a hot shower, and watch a flick before I take off for the airport tonight for a weekend getaway.
Sounds like a chill afternoon, especially after a good day raising moolah.
“I hope you’ll forgive me for being a few minutes late. It’s one of my worst habits, but I’m working on it.”
The smooth-as-butter voice sends rushing tingles down my back as the man I ached to see comes into view.
“Forgiveness granted,” I say since I’m feeling especially generous with this guy and his silver tongue. But not totally forgiving. “Though it seems like maybe you were trying to get out of target practice.”
Hunter crosses his arms, a move that makes his biceps pop. Oh, yes. “You think I’m afraid to toss a pie at you?”
Time to sass him.
I smirk. The effect might be more powerful if I weren’t covered in food, but I don’t care. My face is a Jackson Pollock, but I will speak in my native tongue. “I do. I’ve got a hunch you showed up late to try to get out of pieing me.”
He scoffs, chasing a chuckle. Then he unleashes a deep, satisfying sigh. “Oh, Nate. Be careful what you wish for.”
“I’ve got a lot of wishes, Hunter.” A lot of naughty wishes. I tip my forehead to the ticket taker for this booth. “Better go put your money where your mouth is, mister.”
He steps closer, so he’s a foot or two away from me, then drops his voice to a dirty whisper. “I know where I’d like to put my mouth.”
Yeah, baby.
“What do you know? Me too. Now, go. Do it,” I taunt.
He turns on his heel, giving me the chance to admire his fine ass as he walks away. He heads to a volunteer and buys up the rest of the pies.
Oh, shit.
I didn’t see that coming.
Nor this—Hunter’s walking back toward me, his arms laden with about eight desserts. “Put myself through uni as a server. I know how to carry pies.”
“Did they teach you to hurl them too?”
“No. Some sports I’m just naturally good at. This’d be one of them.”
He sets down the pies at a table near me, grabs one, then backs up a few feet. He grips it just so in his palm, then stares at me with narrowed eyes, the tip of his tongue wetting the corner of his lips like he’s assessing the angle, then the launch trajectory.
Lifting a pie like a deadly weapon, he aims.
And . . . fuck.
My face is covered in cherries. Ugh. Warm cherries.