Page 7 of Enticing the Enforcer

I give him a look. “You call every girl you meet a goddess?”

He grins. “Only the ones who sell out stadiums and make me feel things I didn’t know songs could make me feel.”

My cheeks warm under the hoodie, and I look down at the fries like they’ve suddenly become fascinating.

“How long have you been listening?” I ask even though I know it’s tricky territory. One wrong word and this whole fantasy dissolves.

He shrugs, then leans back, chewing a huge bite of food. Everything about him is big. His jaw, his hands, his legs stretched out into the room. “Since I was fifteen. Your first album. A girl I had a crush on played it nonstop, and at first, I wanted to stab myself in the ear–”

“Talk about ouch.”

“But,”he continues, “after a while, I started listening to the words. I’d go sit outside in my brother’s Jeep and putLace & Leadon repeat until I knew every line. It just felt like, I don’t know, you knew how to put all those feelings into words. Like the songs got there before I did.”

I stare at him, stunned by the honesty in his voice.

Most guys either fanboy too hard or pretend they’ve never heard of me.

Jefferson Parks isn’t trying to do either.

He’s just here, telling me his story.

“What about you?” he asks, like it’s his turn. “What made you want to do this? Music?”

I chew slowly, then swallow. “It wasn’t a choice, really. I mean, I’ve always loved it. Writing. Performing. I was that kid who sang in the mirror and cried at bad commercials. But it’s also, I guess, what I was good at, even when I was younger. It made sense when everything else didn’t.”

“And now?” He takes another bite.

“Now I’mreallygood at it. Maybe the best in my generation,” I admit with zero pretense. The downloads, the album sales, the merch, and sold-out venues… I don’t have to prove myself. It’s all there in black and white.

“But…”

Our eyes meet. I can tell in this light that his are a bluish gray. “But, I’m just not sure Ilikeit all the time.”

“Too much pressure?” He asks like he understands it.

“Sometimes. Maybe more like, there’s too much noise,” I say. “Everyone wants something. Everyone’s always watching. Waiting for you to slip. Sometimes I just want to go out for a burger without someone selling the photo five minutes later.”

“Well,” he says, “Since I’m supposed to be getting ready for the biggest games in my career, the last thing I need is for someone, primarily my captain or coach, to know where I am and what I’m eating–so no cameras. Your secret is safe with me.”

I smile. “You’re not what I expected.”

“Let me guess,” he says. “You thought I was some loud-mouthed jock hoping for a selfie and a blowjob?”

I snort-laugh so hard I almost choke on my fry. “Pretty much.”

“I mean,” he chuckles, reaching for his drink, “I wouldn’t say no, but I’m not just that.”

“No?”

“No. I’m incredibly skilled atgivingoral, not just receiving, I’m remarkably humble, and,” his head tilts toward the game table, “I’m very good at air hockey.”

At the oral comment, I choke on my water. This guy. His ego is massive, possibly the biggest I’ve ever encountered, which says a lot coming from the industry I’m in and the men I’ve been exposed to over the last decade.

“Remarkably humble,” I repeat, plucking a fry between my manicured nails.

The room feels warmer. Closer. Like we’ve carved out this little bubble of unreality.

“You gonna singLace and Leadtomorrow?” he asks, quieter this time.