Eligible Receiver (Men of Fall #3)- S.R. Grey Page 0,2

jeans hug her slender hips. And the swell of her breasts under the fuzzy purple sweater she has on beneath her open coat has caught my eye.

And my interest.

She’s not wearing much makeup. Not that she needs any. This girl is naturally pretty. Her hair is a honey-blonde shade, and she has it pulled up in a high ponytail, making her appear fun and sporty.

I like it.

I like her.

When she sits down, she leaves two seats between us.

I almost laugh.

But I don’t.

When she offers me popcorn and I decline, she yanks it and snaps, “Whatever. Suit yourself.”

Crap, I didn’t mean to offend her.

We sit quietly then, waiting for the movie to start.

When it doesn’t—I mean, hell, not even the previews are playing yet—I try to explain. “Look, it’s just that I don’t like it.”

“Like what?” the girl states dryly, staring straight ahead.

“Popcorn. I’m not a fan.”

“Oh? Ohhh…”

She smiles over at me then, and it feels like the ice may be breaking.

Thank fuck!

With the initial awkwardness out of the way, we engage in small talk about insignificant things like what we’ve heard about the movie—pretty much that it’s old and in black-and-white—and other mundane stuff like how nice it was today.

Great, we’ve resorted to chitchat about weather.

Breezily, she says, “I know. It was so mild earlier. I loved it. I’m hoping it stays this way.”

“Uh, I don’t think that’s happening,” I warn.

“No? Why not?”

I give her the bad news. “They’re calling for snow this evening.”

“Wait, what?” She scowls, a piece of popcorn poised halfway to her mouth.

She’s so cute.

I can’t help but smile.

And then I go on. “I’m afraid so. You know, it is only February, and we live in Ohio. Not exactly a tropical paradise.”

“No, far from it.” She laughs. “Even though I’ve lived here all of my life, I swear I’ll never get used to the stupid snow. I actually kind of hate it.”

“Huh,” I counter, “I sort of like it.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“No.” I shake my head. “But that’s probably because snow is still fairly new to me.”

Appearing genuinely curious, she asks, “You’re not from around here?”

“No.” I twist in my seat to face her more directly. “I’m originally from Florida. I’ve lived in Columbus only a short while. Before that, most of the other places I lived in were warm too.”

“Wow, lucky you,” she says with no hint of sarcasm. “I would’ve stayed in one of those sunny states.”

To explain to her why I didn’t would blow my cover—I moved to Ohio when I was picked up by the Columbus Comets—so I just smile over at her.

There’s no way I’m divulging that football brought me here, nor do I plan to share that I bought a house and am staying in town during the off-season.

No, I like that this chick has no clue who the hell I am or what I do for a living.

I plan to keep it that way.

That’s why I don’t mention my name, not even my first.

Even if I didn’t offer up my last name—Samuels—my first name, Lars, is pretty unique. She could easily put two and two together.

Hey, she hasn’t told me her name either. Though I suspect her omission is due to the fact that we’ve been too busy talking.

Hmm, the conversation has flowed rather nicely.

But then the lights turn all the way down to almost complete darkness and the previews begin.

We fall silent.

Though my new friend is still a couple of seats away, she leans towards me.

I do the same, shifting in her direction.

Whoa.

That’s when I feel it—an electricity, a current running between us.

If I feel it, she must too, right?

I think she does, as I catch her pressing her lips together.

So I take a chance.

Patting the seat next to me, I whisper, “You should move closer.”

She looks over at me, her expression indiscernible in the darkness.

Finally, she says, “Okay.”

I breathe a sigh of relief that I haven’t offended her.

“Cool.”

Once she sits down in the seat next to me, she sets her popcorn down on the floor.

When she leans back, her arm brushes mine.

Shit, that current of electricity that’s been humming soars off the charts.

I take a deep breath.

She smells sweet, like honeysuckles or something. I don’t know. All I do know is that I want to drink her in.

Casually, I drape an arm around the back of her seat.

She scoots closer, her right knee touching my left.

I don’t pull away, and neither does she.

Things are sizzling now.

When I blow out a stuttered breath, she glances over at me.

Even in the