“Quicke invited us to the game.”
She wrinkles her nose. “Do you want to go?”
“Nothing else to do. Everyone’s in town for it and rivalries are always fun.”
“Are you a football fan?” she asks.
“It’s fine. Not my favorite.”
“Me neither. Except maybe basketball. There’s enough scoring in basketball that a clock feels necessary. The other clock sports, football especially, just feel . . . empty, like there’s a false momentum to them without enough scoring to make up for it.”
“I never thought about it that way. I don’t know ifanyonehas ever thought about it that way.”
She shrugs. “It’s just how my brain works. Always has. It’s why baseball appealed to me as a kid. You have to earn it. If you don’t, the game justneverends.”
NowthatI’ve thought about before and suddenly I don’t want to go hang out in a suite with Ethan Quicke and his high-school and college buddy entourage and eat cold appetizers while we watch two teams I couldn’t give two shits about.
I don’t care what we do, I just want to do it with her.
“Fuck the game.”
“Really? Didn’t you just say there’s nothing else to do,” she asks. “You okay, Avery?”
“I’m great. C’mon, let’s go.”
“Go where?”
“We haven’t eaten anything all day aside from airplanepeanuts. Let’s get some food, a couple of drinks, and I want you to walk me through your plan for the forty-man roster one spot at a time.”
“Seriously?”
“Why? You got anything better to do?”
“Absolutely not. Let’s go.”
She spins away from me and I have to lean back to avoid getting whipped in the face by a rogue lock of blonde hair. That scent trails behind her. I’m momentarily swept away by it again, byheragain. By the rage and the righteous indignation that melted away at my confession.
I only manage to regain my focus in time to catch sight of her robe falling from her shoulders to the floor of the bedroom and her lifting that tank top up and over her head, just as the door closes.
And I collapse down onto the couch, letting out a shaky breath.
A truce.
An agreement to work together.
This is what I wanted.
So why do I feel like she just owned me entirely?
And why do I like it so fucking much?
Chapter 7
FRANCESCA
The bar is somehow exactly what I imagined: reflecting the city we’re in, an odd mismatch of what Montana used to be and what it is now. Like a layer of old west nostalgia slapped on top of an attempt at industrial chic.
Even in just dark jeans and a black wrap top, a black leather jacket and black pumps, I feel wildly out of place. The dress code matches the décor: urban cowboy or cowgirl, as it were. I very much look like I just hopped off a plane from the East Coast.
