Page 9 of Biggest Player (Not Yours #2)

Dex

“Take her for a drink, they said. It will be fun, they said,” I mumble, disgruntled.

“First of all, I can hear you.” Margot laughs, perched on the barstool next to me. “Second, this was your idea. I tried to weasel my way out of it, but you insisted.”

She lifts her cocktail glass to her lips and sips.

Obviously, I watch.

I’ve been watching her a lot since we sat down at the bar of an old tavern on the outskirts of the city, closer to where she lives than I do—for the first time I tried to be a gentleman, seeing as she’s doing me a favor and all.

“When did you try to weasel your way out of coming tonight?”

Margot rolls her eyes at me over the brim of her glass.

“Remember when I asked if you had friends who could help you instead of me?” She swirls the crystal glass, studying the amber liquid and the big square ice cube before taking another sip.

“I reckon if you sit here long enough by yourself, some lonely woman will find you.”

I feel my entire forehead wrinkle. “Some lonely woman would find me? What am I, a charity case?”

My anti-date snorts. “Hardly. That wasn’t my point. What I meant was, all you have to do is sit here and look pretty.”

“Aww, you think I’m pretty?” I flutter my eyelashes as I lift my glass of beer. It’s cold and in a frosted mug, just the way I like it.

Margot sighs long and loud. “You’re lucky Wyatt had a slumber party tonight, or I would have canceled on you.”

I’m not sure how to translate what she means by that. “What are you saying? That you can’t get babysitters?”

She shrugs. “Sure, I can get babysitters. I just don’t like wasting them on pointless”—she pauses, searching for the words—“efforts.”

“You think this is pointless?” And what does she mean by efforts?

Margot is confusing the fuck out of me.

She turns on the wooden stool, leveling me with a stare. “Yes. This isn’t a date. You felt guilty about being an assbag, so you’re buying me a drink, and I haven’t had the chance to wear my new jeans out of the house, so I said yes.”

New jeans?

Ass bag?

I’m trying to follow her logic. “You agreed to drinks so you could wear your new jeans?”

She nods, letting out a satisfied ahhh after her drink. “Yup. I don’t like wasting them on the grocery store.”

Margot slides off the stool, sets her glass on the bar top, and skims her palms over the front of her dark denim jeans. She postures and poses, jutting out her hip. For someone who hasn’t spent more than a few minutes in my company, she certainly isn’t shy.

It’s as if she doesn’t care what I think of her.

Tucked into the high waist of her pants is a black silk blouse—it’s covered with small bright-blue lightning bolts.

The top three buttons are unbuttoned.

It’s flirty.

Cute.

Big gold hoop earrings.

If she’s trying to keep this evening casual, she’s doing a remarkably shitty job because I haven’t been able to stop staring down her shirt since we got here, and I sure as hell want to reach over and touch her hair, feel if it’s as soft as it looks.

Instead, I set down my beer and crack my knuckles.

“Cute” is what I manage to say.

“Cute,” she mimics, hopping back on her stool. “The thing every grown woman wants to be called.”

“I don’t know what you’re getting annoyed about. If I had said those jeans make your ass look amazing, you would be insulted by that too.”

Her head shakes. “Not true. These days, I’m willing to take whatever compliments I can get.”

Margot laughs, looking adorable and fun and sexy, and in the back of my brain I wonder if anyone has taken our photo and whether or not a picture of us will appear online tomorrow. Or tonight.

One never knows.

I couldn’t care less, but I imagine that as a teacher Margot would care a whole lot.

It’s a weird, foreign feeling sitting next to a woman who doesn’t seem to be interested in me romantically. Financially. Physically.

I should check her temperature; maybe she’s coming down with an illness ...

She plucks up a menu, studies it a few seconds before snapping it closed when the bartender walks over to wipe down the counter—whether he’s trying to listen to our conversation or he’s ready to take our order, I do not know.

“I find it so fascinating you’re on a dating app.” She resumes sipping her cocktail. “Is this your first go-round?”

I assume she’s asking if I’ve been on dating apps before. “Yes, it’s my first time. My, uh —friend’s girlfriend created Kissmet.”

Margot blinks at me.

Blinks again.

“Are you kidding me right now?” Smacks me on the shoulder as if I were her bro, eyes wide with delight. “Shut the front door! She did not.”

I nod. “It’s true.”

“Stop it—that is so cool! Did she actually?”

I nod again. “Yeah. Her name is Harlow.”

“That is so cool,” she whispers again in an awe-filled voice. “What’s it like knowing someone who created something so useful?”

She sounds so impressed. More impressed than she sounded when she discovered I am a bona fide, real-life professional athlete, my face and name scattered on billboards and products all over the country. All over the world.

My ego bruises a fraction.

I clear my throat. “Harlow is awesome.”

“That’s so neat,” she gushes. “I can’t wait to tell Wyatt.”

I humph, shoulders slouching.

Perk up when the bartender returns with a basket of chips and another beer for me. Margot digs in immediately, chomping down on a chip. Moans as if it’s the best thing she’s had all week.

“What made you decide to start dating? Or go on an app, I mean. I bet you have women throwing themselves at you left and right.”

I nod. “My friends are dropping like flies, and I was getting jealous of hearing about it.” I laugh. “Once my friend Landon moved to a city to play football and to be with his girlfriend, I ...”

She waits for me to finish, swirling her glass and staring down into it.

“It’s about time to grow up,” I say, jerking my head at the end of my sentence as if to say period point blank.

“But you don’t want a family.” Margot is about to pop another chip in her mouth.

“Nah, too busy for one.”

“But you want a girlfriend?” Her nose is wrinkled up now, which tells me one thing: I said the wrong thing.

“Sure.”

She chews.

Swallows.

Then.

“ Why? ”

“Why do I want a girlfriend?”

A nod. “Yes. You just said you were too busy for a family—wouldn’t that same rule apply for a partner? Wouldn’t that make you too busy for a relationship?”

“No, dude—a girlfriend can travel with me.”

“So while you’re working, she can follow you around the United States, waiting for you to get done with your games?”

I sigh with relief. She totally gets it!

“Exactly!”

Margot laughs. “That is the stupidest freaking thing I’ve ever heard.”

It is? “Why?”

She shrugs. “For so many reasons, but you know what? It doesn’t matter what I think because your dating life is none of my business.

What is my business is your dragging my daughter into your dating drama, knowingly or not—she’s done nothing but plot and plan more money-building schemes to involve you in since she met you. ”

“She is not.” I chuckle. “And if I may be so bold to point out, she earned that money through hard work.”

I hope she isn’t going to beat this subject into the ground—I already explained why I paid her kid. We had a deal, and I honored it.

“We’re not here to talk about what I should or shouldn’t do with my money; we’re here because you were going to give me some advice.

” We’re also here because: why not. We connected on the app, shared some barbs, pissed each other off, and now we have one thing in common: we’re both single and ready to commiserate.

She could have easily given me dating tips within the app, but after meeting her in person at the restaurant, this seemed like much more fun.

“It sounds like you know what you’re looking for,” she says after a time, crunching on more chips since the bartender hasn’t brought the appetizer she ordered.

“I think as long as you’re honest from the beginning about what you want—which you have been—you’ll find someone.

” Margot pauses. “There’s someone for everyone. ”

She sounds altruistic, spewing do-gooder, motivational bullshit.

“Do you actually believe that?”

“Of course I do.” She swirls her glass some more. “I have to.”

My forehead creases. “I can’t imagine you’ll have a problem finding someone to date.”

She is so fucking cute.

And funny.

And men aren’t as picky as women are, if you don’t count me among those ranks. I’m picky as hell.

“Uh, if you think it’s easy for me because I’m a female, think again. You said so yourself—you don’t want to date anyone with kids. Trust me, there are plenty of men like you, men who want nothing to do with a woman with children, even if it’s only one.”

Those men are fucking idiots. It’s on the tip of my tongue to say. I stop myself, realizing it makes me sound incredibly hypocritical, even though I am being hypocritical.

It doesn’t hurt that I’ve met her now.

And I’ve met her daughter.

That changes my mind a little, just slightly.

“How many dates have you been on?” I ask, watching as the bartender sets down a basket of fries and a basket of fried calamari, dipping sauces on the side.

Yum.

Margot smacks my hand away when I reach for one of the fries. “You said you didn’t want to eat—this is just drinks.”

Eh? “Why do you get to eat and I don’t?”

“’Cause. I can sit here after you leave and continue to feast. I am in no rush.”

That’s not fair.

Not fair at all.

I reach for the basket again, and this time she allows me to steal three fries from it.

“How many dates have I been on?” She brings the conversation back around to my question. “Since downloading the app?” She pulls a sour face, thinking. “Eh, this one? Which doesn’t count, obviously.”

Obviously.

“Should I be offended that you don’t consider this a date?”

“Why would you be offended? We clearly have one another in the friend zone.”

“We have? Since when?” I steal a calamari, dipping it in red sauce and popping the entire piece in my mouth.

“Are you being serious?” Her mouth falls open. “You have no romantic interest in me.”

Says who?

My brain might be saying no, but my dick is saying yes—why do we need to decide right this second who the winner will be?

“Would you like me to have romantic interest?” I ask her, to be clear. I already know she thinks I’m an asshole; she’s told me to my face and in writing numerous times.

Margot nibbles on a fry. “I think that ... had things not gotten off on the wrong foot, things might be different.”

“Are you talking about the whole ‘bribing your kid’ thing?” ’Cause that was an accident.

“No. I’m talking about me getting salty about you being a catfish and you changing your profile because of it.”

“But I’m not a catfish. I’m me.”

She leans back on the barstool. “Right. And now I have no idea what to do with that information. A teacher cannot date a professional football player—it just wouldn’t work.

” She shrugs, stuffing the entire fry in her mouth before reaching for another one.

“Opposites might attract but not when someone is this opposite. It’s so extreme. ”

She laughs.

“How do you know how opposite we are? You don’t know me.”

Margot rolls her eyes, looking very much like her daughter. “Fine. Give me some of your hobbies.”

“I love the outdoors.”

“See? I don’t.”

“I don’t believe you,” I scoff. “Do you like sledding? Or skiing? Or snowmobiles?”

“Who doesn’t like sledding?” she reluctantly allows.

“Do you like secluded cabins in the woods?”

Her eyebrows go up. “For murder?”

That makes me laugh. “No, not for murder. For roaring fireplaces and hot chocolate and watching the snow fall through the windows.”

She watches me, a blank expression on her face. “Did you suddenly become a poet?”

I laugh again. “Only trying to prove a point.”

She huffs a sigh, crossing her arms. “Fine. I like the outdoors; I was just trying to be difficult.”

No comment. “What about you?” I steal more appetizers.

“I like to read.”

Was that a challenge?

“Same.”

Her head tilts. “Oh, is that so. What kind of books?”

I crack my knuckles, pleased I have an answer to this to fire off. “Mostly audio. Easy to listen to on a flight and in the car.”

“Like murder podcasts and such?”

I can’t keep the smile off my lips. “What is it with you and trying to weasel a confession out of me that I’m a killer, you weirdo.”

When Margot laughs, I study her. Head tipped back, hair falling down her back in waves, tits jiggling in her silk shirt—a dimple suddenly appearing in her cheek. What’sthisnow? A dimple?

Stop it right fucking now.

I want to put my finger in her cheek and poke it. How did I not notice this before? Oh yeah, I know how—she’s been pissed at me until this very moment.

Dimples are my kryptonite.

A game changer.

It must only appear when she finds something really funny. This new indicator of my humor has activated a launch sequence. Must. Make. Her. Laugh.

Unfortunately, I’m more handsome than funny.

“I don’t think you’re a killer. Promise.” She holds a hand to her heart. “But I am going to give you shit about it—that’s a real concern for women in the dating world, so I’m sure you’ll hear it again.”

I hope not.

“Am I that intimidating?”

Margot has the nerve to laugh in my face. “No! God no. Why, do people tell you that?”

Uh.

Yes?

Literally all the time?

Have I mentioned my football stats? I’m a beefy six foot four, graduated from a Big Ten university with decent grades, sport a bushy beard sporadically, have wide linebacker shoulders, and eat three cheeseburgers in one sitting.

Not to brag.

“Oh my God.” Margot cackles harder. “They do tell you that, don’t they.”

“Stop laughing at me.” I spread my arms wide, beer in my left paw. “Do I not look like I could mud wrestle a bear?”

She laughs harder still, damn her. Is she being fucking serious? Why is this so funny? What is she laughing at ?

“Mud wrestle? That is so specific.”

“You’re a brat,” I finally say, much to her amusement.

“No, no—by all means, tell me how you’re going to wrestle a bear, in the mud, and win. I want to hear it.” Margot waves a hand aimlessly in the air, all the while mocking me.

I glare, a thousand retorts in the back of my brain and not a single one that’s intelligent.