Page 10 of The Virgin Game Plan (Rules of Love 2)
Was he? Ecstatic? And what’s he like, then, when he is lost in the throes of ecstasy?
I shouldn’t be thinking this.
But it seems the dirty-thought train has left the station and I’ve booked a first-class ticket.
“Were you really? Enjoying it that much?” I ask, my voice feathery.
“I was,” he says in a low rasp. “I enjoyed talking to you very much.”
“Same. Same for me.” He turns toward the quad, but I stop him with a hand on his arm. “Actually, we’re headed this way—”
Oh, holy guns. That is one fine mountain of muscle right there.
I am kind of a touchy person. And he doesn’t seem to mind that I’m touching him. But still, I drop my hand, reluctantly.
I try to collect my thoughts, to narrow my focus to the task as we walk to the main building where I want to start. “I’m glad you’ve enjoyed the interview so far. I appreciate how open you were. You spoke honestly, it seemed. Some sports stars are so. . . sanitized. Do you know what I mean?”
He nods as if he knows exactly. “They all learned from the Crash Davis School of Public Relations?”
I cock my head. “The minor league player who logged a record fifty doubles in one season with the Durham Bulls?”
His jaw drops. “Tell me you’re showing off and you do realize I mean the main character in the greatest baseball movie ever.”
I shrug, biting back a smile. I knew what he meant, but I was also showing off a little. “I haven’t seen that movie.”
He brings his hand to his heart. “How can you call yourself a baseball fan, woman?”
I give another casual shrug. “It’s kind of old. It’s from, what, the eighties?”
“It’s a classic. I’ve seen it, and I’m not that much older than you.”
“I figured you weren’t.” I know all his baseball stats; of course I know how old he is. But he seems to be emphasizing a point, one that I definitely get.
“I’m twenty-five,” he says, and it comes out like an invitation, like he’s saying he’s just the right age for me.
My skin prickles with the awareness that he’s telling me something, not for the interview, but for me alone. And maybe he’s asking something too.
“I’m twenty-two,” I offer, letting him know I might be in college, but I’m well above legal in every single way. Besides, I graduate in a week.
His heated gaze lingers on me. “Good to know.”
“Is it? Good to know?” I ask, all breathy, my skin tingling from his tone, his words, his confident gaze that travels up and down my body.
“So very good to know,” he says.
We’ve paused in our walk, and before the moment veers too far into dangerous territory, I shift back into motion and back to the topic of the movie, trying to keep this interview professional. Mostly. “So, this old movie. Tell me about it.”
He rolls his eyes. “Old movie, my ass,” he mumbles, like I’m just too much. He clears his throat. “In the flick, Crash Davis is teaching the new pitcher how to interact with reporters. All you have to say is this: ‘I’m just happy to be here. Hope I can help the ball club. I just want to give it my best shot.’ It’s basically a bunch of platitudes.”
I laugh. “Yes, you’re the opposite of Crash Davis. It was so refreshing to see that you’re so very . . . real.”
A smile spreads across his face. His handsome, chiseled face. His stubbled jawline. His strong cheekbones. His piercing eyes. They’re the most arresting shade—forest green flecked with gold.
But he’s so much more than a handsome face. So much more than a strong, firm, muscled frame.
Holden Kingsley is not what I expected. Yes, I expected the intensity. But I didn’t anticipate he’d be charming, clever, passionate, and . . . interested.
The second that word touches down in my brain, I can’t stop thinking it.
He seems interested.
Incredibly interested.
As interested as I am.
Another spark of pleasure ignites in my chest.
A dangerous, tempting spark.
That’s a sign that I should focus on the interview. So I grab my podcast recorder, turn it on, then I say, “Now it’s time for my favorite part of the show.”
He rubs his hands together. “Lay it on me,” he says, all eager and ready to go.
“Lay it on?” I quirk a brow.
He shoots me a don’t give me a hard time look. “I didn’t mean any innuendo by that, I swear,” he says, holding up his hands.
“I’ll let it go just this once,” I say, because I do want him to be lacing innuendo in his words.
I like his innuendo.
His flirting.
His whole confident but friendly vibe. He’s just my style, and I didn’t realize I’d be into a guy like him till now. But I am. Oh hell, am I ever.
