Page 7 of The Virgin Game Plan (Rules of Love 2)
She leans a little closer, almost like she’s going to bump her shoulder with mine. “Stop saying all your good stuff now, or we’re not going to have anything left for the interview.”
I’m tempted to nudge her elbow in response. To throw a crooked grin her way. “But I thought we were just practicing? That you liked preparation too?”
My tone is way more flirtatious than I expected.
But there it is. So be it.
A sliver of a smile touches her lips. “Maybe I do. I suppose this is like a dress rehearsal?”
“Exactly. We’ll be so damn ready when we get into that soundproof booth.” I swear I’m not trying to sound flirty, but it comes out like that anyway.
Probably because I want to flirt with her.
I’d say it was a bad idea—distractions and all that—but, hey, one interview won’t last too long. Might as well have fun for the next hour. It won’t derail my plans for the day.
“You sure seem ready, Reese. Knowing my stats and whatnot,” I say.
“I’ve done so much homework on you, I think I know your shoe size,” she says, and an appreciative rumble works its way up my chest.
Shoe size is innocent, but also . . . not.
Does she realize we’re both playing with the fire of innuendo?
She flashes a grin at me, and that sexy smile is dashed with something extra, something a bit spicier than that confidence I saw in the auditorium. Yep, it’s flirtation, and I like the look of it. I like it too, though, when she turns more serious, meeting my gaze and holding it earnestly. “Thank you for taking time to do this interview, Holden. It means a lot to me.”
“It’s my pleasure.” We walk past trees bursting with cherry blossoms; Spark Hall looms fifty feet away. “Plus, I was impressed that you wrote. Like I said, it takes a lot of guts just to reach out to someone and say what you want.”
“So, you saw yourself reflected back at you?” she asks with a knowing grin.
This woman, she can read between all sorts of lines, the way she seems to understand people, their motivations.
Yet another mark in the appealing column.
She has too many for my peace of mind.
“That’s fair to say,” I answer as I open the door, gesturing for her to go in first. “I appreciate you doing your homework.”
“I try to be a self-made woman,” she says.
“That’s why I said yes right away.”
“I’m so glad you did.”
“Me too.” The truth of that hits me in the solar plexus. It’s not just a polite response—I’m genuinely glad to be here talking with her.
Five minutes in, and I already have the hots for this woman.
Good thing I’ll be gone soon.
She smiles a thank-you back at me. Then we head down a corridor of media rooms and soundproof booths. She opens the door to one, and I follow her in, where she settles at the desk, unzipping her fire-engine-red messenger bag. It’s the same color as her blouse. The same color as her lips.
Her lush, full lips.
My throat goes dry as I stare at her sensual mouth while she takes out her laptop. A flicker of heat travels across my skin.
“You like red.” It’s the height of obviousness, and my voice dropped a little lower. I hope neither of those things gives me away.
She looks up from her laptop screen, her eyes cutting to mine. “I call it my power color.”
And I’m all sorts of intrigued. “Why is that?”
“A woman in sports needs a locus of power,” she says, sure of herself, a trait that’s a crazy turn-on.
Seems everything about her is a turn-on to me.
I wiggle my fingers. “All right. I need to know about this power philosophy.”
She gives an easy shrug, chased by a smile. “It’s a male-dominated field. We need to stay strong. There aren’t as many of us.” She says it matter-of-factly, but clearly, she’s thought this through.
“This is something you take quite seriously,” I say.
“I do.” She plucks at the fabric of her shirt. “I like red. It makes me feel confident,” she says, then laughs self-deprecatingly, pointing at me. “Now I’m revealing all my secrets to you, Holden. I’d better be careful, or I’ll tell you everything.”
Ah, hell. She’s got me in her thrall, and I don’t want to be anyplace else right now. Fuck resistance. “Maybe I want to know everything.”
She nibbles on the corner of her red lips, and I stifle a groan. “Starting with?” she asks.
Swallowing roughly, I try to form words. Words that aren’t How do you like to be kissed?
I scan the desk for a diversion and spot a photo of Reese and two women on her laptop background. One is Black; one is Asian. “Your friends?”
“That’s Layla and Tia. We met freshman year on the volleyball team. Layla is going to Italy to play professionally. She’s practically as tall as you,” she says. She points to the woman with the sleek black hair. “Tia is a psych major. She said I should wear red today.”
