2

Kassie

A Hip Grab From The Most

Aggravating Man In The World

For as much as Cleo got me into this bind, I knew I was the only person who could help her out of hers.

Cleo softened her tone. "Kassie…this restaurant, it's four stars. You don't have to stay for dinner, you can order to go. Buy whatever you want. It's billed to the school."

Whatever I want?

I hesitated.

Two weeks ago, one of the bars switched their payroll system from one that worked to one that sure as shit did not. They delayed my paycheck for another six days. And the bookstore checks never covered anything beyond rent. I had multiple roommates, and our fridge desperately needed a grocery run.

Fuck, I needed an anything run.

A restaurant run?

After all, it was only two more minutes tops in this private room of horrors.

It wasn't like I'd gain back the chance to meet my hero. That ship hadn't even come to port. Was I in the position to turn down free food?

Without responding, I sat back down in the chair.

The man's voice was a low murmur. "That was a quick dick-sucking."

"Thanks," I replied, icy, "I'm a champ."

He chuckled under his breath while one of Cleo's many assistants combed his hair which seemed determined to follow its own rules. Finally, without him staring at me, I could get a good look at the specimen.

Damn. I do recognize him.

It was a wonder I didn't place him before. After all, his gigantic, overblown face was plastered on every TV screen in the art building for the first two weeks of school.

Ryan Cross.

Professional football player, team captain of the Marrs University football team—the Romans—designated to go pro. Golden boy of the university. The number one face on all of our ads. A guy with our whole college willing and ready to get on their knees and suck him off.

Ridiculous.

I knew his type. Ryan Cross could've been any of the arrogant jockhead jerks who made my Thursday night bartending shifts absolute hell.

"I figured out who you are."

"You pieced it together?" He smirked.

"You're one of those…ball dribblers, right?"

The smirk vanished. "Football player."

"That's what I said."

His cool presentation cracked. "We're not the dribbling ones."

"You sure?" I pursed my lips together. "Saw a game my freshman year. Pretty sure I saw some dribbling."

He cocked his head to the side and watched me with those dark honey eyes. Ryan spoke in careful sentences like he'd been trained to give monologues. "We're in the middle of a one hundred and fifty million dollar football campaign, in the running for the Birchwood Bowl. Trust me. We're not the ball dribblers."

"You guys are what they waste my tuition on?"

Ryan leaned in close enough that I could smell his cologne. It was either mouthwatering or I was hungrier than I thought.

"You showed up here to meet a stick figure artist."

I scoffed. "How crazy is it to meet someone who doesn't crack heads for a living?"

"Marrs football pays for every blade of grass you've ever stepped on."

"And that fake as shit astroturf."

His jaw set. "Your art building wouldn't even exist without football donors."

"Listen here, ball dribbler." My eyebrow twitched. "Why don't you go dribble some balls and shove them right up your—?"

"Pictures!" Cleo clapped her hands and I jumped.

Somehow, I'd honestly forgotten she was there.

Clicking her earpiece, she snapped her fingers at the cameraman and set a bobblehead between the two of us.

Wonder who that could be?

The dark, messy curls, the drawn smirk, the crisp football uniform, the empty space in his plastic helmet…

He tried to warn me. "Don't."

"The head's too small on your doll." I smiled for the camera. "Got to complain to somebody about that."

"You're something else, art girl."

"Thank you, ball dribbler."

Cleo ushered us into a standing position. "One more and you're free to go!"

I pulled down my romper a bit as I struggled to maintain a better pose. With this particular romper, panties were a no-go. Which was fine when I thought I was just supposed to look nice.

And now? Not fine when I had to get comfy with a jockhead.

It didn't even matter what I wore anyway. My chance was gone to meet Henry Miller. And that was that. Determined not to let my hurt show, I smoothed down the fabric. My skin prickled as Ryan took his place next to me, a whole head taller. He took up space like nobody else.

"Closer," Cleo commanded.

"Are you going to play nice?" Ryan muttered. "I can't afford bite marks."

My fingers curled into my palm at the remark. It was a simple intrusive thought, nothing more. Nothing. But having my lips that close to Ryan…the image shot through my brain like I'd actually want that. What, from some ball-throwing bozo?

I rolled my eyes. "You wish."

The next thing I knew, Cleo said something I didn't catch, and his hand was on my waist.

No skin showed—it wasn't inappropriate by any means. It shouldn't have sent shocks through my nervous system. I tried to hold back the unwelcome reaction. I had to stay relaxed while his fingertips grazed my hips.

No panty straps to feel.

Can he tell?

I had no idea. All I knew was a blush permanently stained my cheeks, and those dark honey eyes took a second to look down at me. He could tell.

A traitorous little voice, buried deep in my brain, practically purred at the thought.

I was pretty sure I stopped breathing because the second his hand released me, the electricity keeping my toes curled vanished into thin air. I came to my senses and hurried to the table.

That was unneeded, completely unwanted, and my blood didn't sing with his touch. No poetry was written. Absolutely not.

"What a blast," I tossed over my shoulder and purposely slowed my walk.

Cleo tried to thank me but I waved without turning back, heading towards the hallway. I needed good, old-fashioned space between me and the clueless, empty-headed, commercially manufactured bobblehead. And the plastic one on the table too.

The moment I passed the divider, my shoulders relaxed. The stiffness disappeared.

I'm fine. I'm good. And I knew one thing and one thing only.

Fuck that contest.

I was ordering everything off the menu.