It’s exhausting. I just want to be somewhere that I can be myself, with someone I know doesn’t give a shit about the Austin Reid legacy or what I can do for them. And that’s the crux of the matter, isn’t it?
Everyone wants a piece of me, expects great things from me. Except Carter.
With her, I can be myself.
It’s funny, actually. I thought that leg of hers would be my saving grace. Turns out it’s just…her. The indifference she wears like battle armor is a salve to the pressure that’s always burning, slow and steady, just below the surface. The weakness I can’t show anyone.
Not even my own father.
I raise my hand to knock again, but the door swings open and there stands Carter, looking more tempting than a midnight snack. My gaze drifts over her, drinking in every detail from the way her hair falls in loose waves over her bare shoulders to the look of surprise that makes her dark eyes appear so damn innocent. She’s wearing a pink tank top—no bra—and I can see the faint outline of her nipples through the thin fabric, which skims the waistband of her shorts.
I shouldn’t look, but I’m only human, for fuck’s sake, and I can’t tear my eyes away from the tiny sleep shorts that showcase her gorgeous legs.
Carter clears her throat and I raise my eyes to meet hers, giving her the cocky QB grin I know drives her nuts.
“What are you doing here?” she asks, pretending to be annoyed. She’s a terrible actress. Her body language totally gives her away as she leans toward me, closing the distance between our bodies. Plus, she doesn’t slam the door in my face, so that’s got to be a good sign, right?
“You know, where I come from, it’s considered good manners to invite a guest in, maybe offer them a cold beverage, before the inquisition.”
She gives a sexy little snort and juts out her hip. “Funny, where I come from it’s considered good manners not to show up in the middle of the night uninvited. You do realize I’m not one of the jersey-chasing floozies who are enamored by your ability to throw a ball, right?”
“Trust me, Carter. I would never mistake you for the kind of woman who would be impressed by my amazing athleticism.” I raise an arm over my head, resting it against the doorjamb, my bicep inches from her face. She’d never admit it, but I saw her checking me out in the locker room, and I have a feeling I’m not the only one here having NC17 thoughts about my teammate.
This time she rolls her eyes, but there’s a hint of a smile on her lips.
I’m totally wearing her down.
“You’re lucky I didn’t tase you.” She waves a little black flashlight in the air and at the press of a button, a bolt of electricity crackles to life.
Holy shit. She’s serious. “You were going to tase me?”
She shrugs and opens the door wider, a sly grin spreading across her face. It’s sexy as hell and a thrill races up my spine. “Still might, but you’re welcome to come in and take your chances.”
There’s a tiny voice in the back of my head telling me there’s no way Carter’s going to tase me, so I latch on to it like a frat boy to a keg and follow her inside. Besides, the knowledge that Carter can take care of herself is kind of hot. Damn right she should tase any prick who hassles her—twice.
The apartment is smaller than my town house, but has the same basic furnishings since—surprise, surprise—we live in the same complex. But where my apartment is decorated with Wildcat gear, pizza boxes, and discarded athletic shoes, Carter’s feels like an actual home.
Hell, she’s even got real curtains on the front window.
Here’s the thing. I’ve been inside my fair share of women’s apartments and I’ve learned to expect certain things. Same mix of bookstore art prints (usually Van Gogh), candles everywhere (always scented), and at least one tapestry hanging on the wall or over a window (likely Urban Outfitters).
Carter’s place is different. There’s an abstract painting over the couch, something with actual character, the splashes of color bold and provocative. There’s a candle burning on the coffee table (is no woman immune to this basic need to burn shit?), and there are a handful of pictures displayed throughout the room. Most are of Carter and a blonde who looks like she’s got pep for days. Probably her roommate.
Although I want to take a closer look, I resist the urge. It seems too personal and something tells me she wouldn’t approve of me touching her stuff. Plus, she still has the Taser.
“How did you know where I live?” Carter crosses her arms over her chest as if she’s just realized the tank top might not be concealing all the goods.
“Student directory. You should really think about removing your address.” I flop down on the couch, right next to the spot with her blanket and popcorn. “The last thing you want is crazy fans or reporters showing up at your door at all hours of the night.”
“The same could be said of cocky quarterbacks.” She eyes her vacant spot on the couch, probably trying to decide if I’m invading her space on purpose (spoiler alert: I am). It’s not until I dig into her popcorn that her stubborn pride kicks in. She puts the Taser on the end table and curls up on the cushion next to me, body turned toward mine, knee pressed against my thigh. “Are you drunk?”
I do my best to look incredulous because I’m definitely not drunk. At least, I’m pretty sure I’m not. “I’m the captain of the football team. It would be irresponsible to drink to excess. It’s my job to set a good example, remember?”
She arches a brow. “Really?”
“Really, really,” I say, quoting my favorite ogre.
Carter
