Page 48 of The Love Playbook

“We arenotfriends.”

“Listen to you,” I say with a cheeky grin. “Playing hard to get again.”

“I amnotplaying hard to get,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest, her expression pinched.

And because I’d rather have her annoyed than upset, I say,“Oh, so you’re saying we’remorethan friends. I mean, I kind of think we’re moving too fast, but I guess I’m okay with it.”

With a growl, she hastily unfastens her seatbelt and gets out of the car. “Fine!” she growls. “If you promise to shut up, I’ll have dinner.”

I grin, pocketing my keys as I slide out and join her on the sidewalk, whistling as we enter the diner side by side. Grabbing her hand, I guide her to the back booth on the far right and next to the ancient jukebox, only releasing my grip on her so she can take a seat.

She slides inside the tacky red booth, eyeing me warily as I settle in across from her and pick up the menu, acting as though she’s not looking at me like she’s plotting my murder.

“So, what are you in the mood for? I don’t know how you feel about chicken and waffles, but theirs are to die for.”

“Do we really have to do this?”

I lower the menu and smirk. “Do what?”

“This.” She motions between us. “Pretend we like each other. We can eat in silence, you know.”

“I do like you, Lettie.” I lower my voice and lean closer as I whisper, “I actually like you very,verymuch.” I wet my lips, eyeing her pouty mouth as she blinks back at me, a fire in her dark eyes I recognize as desire before she blinks it away.

“You know what I mean,” she grumbles, and I laugh.

“How about this?” I say, setting my menu down and folding my hands over the table. “Just for tonight, why don’t you pretend I don’t get under your skin, even though I kind of like it there, where it’s all snug and warm and cozy, and instead, act like we’re just two friends hanging out. Let me treat you to dinner. We’ll enjoy a hot meal together and some harmless conversation, then I’ll drop you off at your dorm room, and you can go back to glaring holes in the side of my face every time I’maround. Deal?” I reach one hand across the table, waiting for her to take it.

She eyes me warily. “If you think you can change my mind about our parents over dinner, you’re wrong.”

“I wouldn’t dream of changing your mind,” I lie.

“Right.” She glances down at my hand before slowly reaching out and clasping it in her own, and I try not to dwell on how perfect it feels?all soft and warm and small inside my larger calloused palm.

“Are you ready to order?” The waitress appears at my side, and I glance down at our clasped hands. Energy zips down my arm before Lettie yanks her hand back, and I wonder if she felt it too.

“We’re ready,” I say.

I lean back in the vinyl booth as we wait on our food, trying to come up with a topic of conversation that won’t piss Charlotte off. She’s agreed to have dinner with me, and even though it took a bit of coercing, I’m counting it as a win. So, the last thing I want to do is ruin it by putting my foot in my mouth.

“So, Lettie Baker, you know I play football, but what do you do for fun when you’re not going to classes, making last-minute trips home, or hanging with the ladies?”

She shrugs, glancing everywhere but right at me. “Nothing, really.”

“Nothing?” I cross my arms over my chest, finding that hard to believe. “Come on, everybody has something.”

“I really don’t. I played a couple of sports in school, but never really stuck with anything, and I’m not in any clubs.”

“So, when you don’t have any schoolwork, and the girls are busy, what do you do?”

She releases a sound, part growl, part sigh. “Why does it matter?”

“Call me curious.”

“I don’t know. Write?”

My eyes widen. “Like, books? Poems? Journaling?”

“No.” She shakes her head. “Nothing so exciting. I like to practice calligraphy and lettering. It’s stupid,” she mumbles, “but my mom got me this kit once when I was twelve, and I fell in love with it. So, I just . . . doodle a lot. Practice with different pens and markers.”