Page 5 of The Game Plan

I’m momentarily distracted by his phone. Or rather the obvious age of it. I’m not certain they even make his model anymore.“What is this, an antique?”

“It gets the job done. Why should I trade up?”

I wrinkle my nose. “I don’t know... so it functions correctly? What about updates?”

“Only use it to call, text, and listen to music. Seems to work fine.”

“You don’t even have face recognition or use a password!”

He merely shrugs with indifference. “I’m not carrying national secrets or anything.”

Shaking my head, I let the matter drop and find his music. Flunk, Goldfrapp, Massive Attack, Portishead, Groove Armada, evensome Morcheeba... He’s got a veritable trip-hop library going.

I grin up at him. “You know, before this, I’d have taken you for a hard rock, or maybe even a bluegrass fan.”

“It’s the beard, isn’t it?” he asks.

“And the man-bun.”

He laughs, a short rumble of sound. “Want me to let it down?”

Yes. Maybe.

“Not necessary. Man-buns are hot. I blame Jason Momoa. There was only so much watching him bang Khaleesi the female populationcould take before they wanted their own Khal Drogo.”

Shit. I really don’t know what the hell I’m doing. Because it sounds a lot like flirting to me. Instinct tells me flirtingwith Ethan Dexter isn’t something to do lightly.

And there’s the fact that I don’t go for athletes. At all. I don’t care how fit they are. Or how confident. I don’t like sports.Football bores me. Oh, I know tons about the sport—kind of impossible not to in my family—but I don’t want to pretend thatI care when I’d rather talk about other things.

Dex’s eyes crinkle again, and he turns toward me, leaning an elbow on the table. “Doesn’t Momoa have a beard?”

I wave my hand. “Who has time to look at his beard when his muscles are on display?”

I most certainly do not look at Dex’s phenomenal arms.

“So your stance on beards is... ?” His gaze is so strong I feel it in my toes.

My breathing picks up. “Don’t particularly like them.”

It’s the truth. And yet, I can’t help but look at his. It’s dark, framing his mouth, which should be a turnoff for me. Onlyit draws all my attention there. To the shape of his mouth—the upper lip a gentle curve, the lower lip fuller, almost a pout.There’s something slightly illicit about the whole effect.

I clear my throat, glance up and find him watching me through lowered lids. He doesn’t seem particularly put out by my frankness.

“What don’t you like about them?”

Is he serious?

He stares at me.

I guess he is.

Taking a quick sip of my drink, I search for an answer. “They’re just so... fuzzy. Prickly.”

He moves in, not crowding me, but putting himself at arm’s reach. He smells faintly of cloves and oranges. It must be hisaftershave or cologne, but it works for me.

I’m distracted by it and almost jump when he speaks again. “Do you know this based on experience, or are you making an assumption?”

My gaze narrows. “Aren’t you the philosopher.”