Page 7 of Only Between Us

He isn’t wearing UOB-issued clothing, so maybe he doesn’t work here. His friend is, though. The guy with the light brown hair and curious frown making his way over to us now.

Shit.

I’m going to get a two-year-old imprisoned. Her mother will kill me.

Mr. Wrecking Ball settles an amused gaze on me. “I’ll tell you what. You need a good shot of the field for the Huskies? I know where to get you one.”

Chapter3Brooks

This isn’t one of my smartest moves.

Sure, I managed to get that unintentionally hot photo of us deleted before it leaked online, stoking the fire of my apparent slutty reputation.

But bringing this woman to a private, deserted corner of the Huskies stadium, high above the field and away from onlookers, probably doesn’t give me the chaste, family-oriented allure Josh says I should be going for. Especially since her friend with the cute kid declined the excursion.

Couldn’t help it, though.

Something about that quick mouth got to me down there. The way she knew I wasn’t buying the bullshit about working for the Huskies but was willing to go down in flames with it anyway. And now we’re up here. For the sole purpose of seeing how deep she’s willing to dig her heels on this.

I lead her through the small coaches’ booth lined with tables and swivel chairs. The lights flicker on automatically as we move toward the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the field.

“This place is usually buzzing on a game day.” She follows me afew steps behind. “You’d have a small army of assistant coaches up here, watching the game and feeding intel to the rest of the team through headsets. If the Huskies need a good picture of the field, this is the place to get one.”

She shoots me a cutting glance. Knows perfectly well that I know they were bluffing down there. Refuses to back down. “You seem to know your way around the place pretty well. Do you work here?”

“Not anymore. A couple of friends of mine work down in the athletic rehab center. They’ve been helping me train during the off-season.”

I don’t elaborate, but it piques her interest anyway. She studies me with those blue-gray eyes the same way she had down on the field. Like she’s on the verge of inviting me over for a privatedoggy-style trystbut also like she’s trying to place me. That look you give when you know you’re supposed to know someone, but you can’t quite figure it out.

“Here, give me your phone. Let’s get you those pictures, huh? Are you supposed to be in them?”

Another searing look in my direction. She’s still unwilling to admit defeat as she hands me her phone.

The woman positions herself by the windows, and I’m struck again by how stunning she is. And I meanstruck, like a truck hitting me head-on, then reversing just to get me again. Down there on the field, she’d damn near turned me into a bumbling mess just by looking at me.

The long dark hair, almost black and so fucking shiny. And those eyes. Bright and lively. This woman is always on the hunt for laughs, I can feel it.

She’s tall, and so lusciously curvy. Hips you want to sink your fingers into, leave a couple prints for her to wake up to in the morning so she remembers who those curves belong to.

She’s got the kind of body and face you just don’t share.

“Question for you.”

“Hm?” Fuck. I’ve been staring at her way longer than is chaste or family-oriented, and she’s definitely noticed.

“Am I…” She shrugs casually. Toys with the necklace she’s wearing. A silver chain with an anchor charm dotted with sparkling blue-gray stones, just like her eyes. “… about to get murdered, maybe?”

My eyebrows shoot up. “Come again?”

She gestures around us. “Well, it’s just that I’m suddenly realizing that I’ve come all the way up here with a stranger. Who’s now holding my phone. Also, aside from telling my friend we were going to find a good spot for a picture, no one knows exactlywhereI am with said stranger. And while this is kind of par for the course for me, the whole getting-myself-into-difficult-to-get-out-of-pickles thing, this one in particular feels like it’ll end with my untimely demise.”

She delivers the entire diatribe in one long, breathless flow, and I let out a single burst of laughter when she finishes. I’d love to know what kind of pickles she gets herself into. I bet they’re good.

“So… will it?” she continues—casually, like she hasn’t just asked me whether I’m about to do away with her. “Am I about to get murdered?”

“Am I?” I counter.

“Are you what?”