Fingers crossed I go to the Cowboys, but now I’m not sure I want to be so close to home and my meddling parents. Me being a professional isn’t going to chill my pops the fuck out—it’s going to make him worse.

He is the male version of Kris Jenner.

I shake my head. Stop thinking about your parents, dumbass. Charlie’s hands are near your face. Focus on that.

Focus on her.

I stand still as stone, flattening my body against the exterior side paneling of her house, letting her decide how long she’s going to touch me.

I watch her eyes cast downward, sliding to my pecs. They’re firm and muscular from hundreds of hours spent in the gym on the bench press. On the field running drills. On the pavement, running laps.

Charlie seems to be debating; about what, I’m not sure, but she’s tentative, delicate hands now hovering over my shirt, still at the neckline.

I watch the dipped crown of her head; she might be tall, but I still tower over her, and the part in her corn silk hair has me fascinated. I want to touch it—I’ve never, not once, run my fingers through a girl’s hair before, and I’m dying to do it right this second.

Shit.

I want her to touch me. Just for a few minutes, Charlie. Just for a second.

There is a light shining on her tiny porch, but it’s behind her head. She’s shrouded in darkness while my face is stuck in the spotlight, the glare blinding me.

I cringe, ducking my head.

“You don’t like that, do ya?”

“No.”

“Now you know how I feel.” The little shit laughs, the palm of her hand roaming to the scruff on my face. I shaved this afternoon, but a few hours have gone by and it’s grown. “I’ll forgive you just this once.”

Her voice is a murmur, thumbs stroking my cheekbones, almost giving me a stroke.

Shit. I’m getting a hard-on.

“Oh yeah?” I squeak out, nervously.

“Yeah. I suppose I will.” Unlike mine, Charlie’s palms are smooth—callous-free and roaming over the sunburn marring the flesh below my eye. “Your poor skin.”

“I don’t wear sunscreen,” I say stupidly, wishing I’d shut my own mouth.

“I can’t imagine you applying sunscreen—too big a hassle, hmm?” She hums in her throat, and I wonder when the fuck she’s going to put me out of my misery and kiss me already.

Patience has never been my strongest virtue.

Charlie hums again as she studies my face with her fingers, the tips trailing from my brow bone down the bridge of my nose. The tip. The indentation above my top lip.

“You’re so…” Her head gives a small shake, too bashful to finish her thought.

“So what?” I sound desperate for her to say what’s on her mind.

Desperate for words no girl has ever said to me—and I don’t even have a clue what they could be.

“Masculine.”

“Is that a good thing?” Don’t tell me if it’s a bad thing; don’t say it.

“Yes.” She pauses, thumb brushing over my chin. “Yes, I like it. I like this little spot, right here.”

The cleft in my chin? I’ve always hated it. “You do?”

“Yeah. It’s…” She pauses so long I don’t think she’ll say it. “Sexy.”

I’ve been called sexy before, but Charlie isn’t calling me sexy—she’s calling the cleft in my chin sexy, breaking me down piece by piece, identifying the parts of me that turn her on.

The meaningless nothings I’ve heard over the years, the same compliments and propositions from girls bestowed on my teammates…

God you’re hot.

Damn you’re sexy, Triple J.

I’ll blow you right now in the bathroom if you’ll let me…

Generic and ambivalent. I’m just a number on the back of a jersey to those women.

But I’m not just a number to Charlie.

I see it now in the way she’s watching her hands move over my skin, fascinated. Like I’m good-looking when I know I’m not, not really. There are thousands of guys better looking than I am, and any of them would be happy to give Charlie what she’s after—a relationship.

I don’t have a clue how to be in one.

I’ve only touched stripper tits; what do I know about having a girlfriend?

But maybe…just maybe…

I’m distracted by Charlie moving closer, breasts pressed against my chest—a new sensation for me. I squirm at the tightening in the crotch of my jeans when her tits squish my pecs.

“I love this.” Her palms cup my jawline.

I love this. Love this.

Love.

Another word I’ve never heard.

I lean into her warmth. She leans into me, tilting her chin up, mouth pouty.

“Do you?” I whisper.

“You know I do.”

I do. I know she likes everything about me or she wouldn’t be standing with me on her porch; Charlie has principles, and misleading someone isn’t her style.

“What…” I clear my throat. “What else do you love?”

Her lips curl up. “Cheeseburgers.”

Sassy brat.

I frown, and Charlie laughs. “Oh, don’t make that face.”

A hmph sound emerges from my throat, my hands somehow finding their way around her midriff, spanning just above the waistband of her jeans and clasping behind her.

She makes a happy little sound, pressing closer still. “Know what else I love?” Her palms rest on my shoulders, slowly, leisurely roaming down my biceps. “How tall you are. How strong.”

I swallow the lump in my throat.

“And I love your hair.”

My hair? It needs to be cut. Stash could probably use a trim before I start to resemble my friend Sasquatch, who looks like fucking Bigfoot, hairy and unkempt. It’s a damn wonder he has a girlfriend.

“I need a trim,” I tell her dumbly as her fingers continue their exploration of my arms, her head giving a tiny shake.

“Mmm, no. It’s perfect.”

She’s perfect.

I hold my breath when her hands leave my body and wind up behind my neck, fingers toying with the hair at the nape.

“At least you can see with your helmet on, hmm?”

It’s the first reference to football Charlotte has ever made; not surprising since she doesn’t seem to give a shit that I’m an athlete. Hasn’t once pestered me about the draft, going pro, or how much I’m going to make if I get signed.

“I can see with my helmet on. It’s not that long.” Not yet. Sometimes I don’t get it cut until Coach makes me pull it back into a bun, which makes wearing headgear a bitch. Nothing hurts worse than getting clocked on the skull when there’s a fucking bun digging into your scalp.

Good times, good times.

“You know,” Charlie begins. “It wasn’t necessary to make a bet with me so you could kiss me.”

“I’m not kissin’ you.”

“You know what I mean, Jackson.”

Yeah, I know what she means. She would have let me kiss her if I’d have made a move on her—which I kind of did back at my house, in the kitchen, albeit passive-aggressively and by default, since my goal was to comfort her, not make out with her.