pulse in her wrists. My head swims with images of her body draped on top of me, her fingers tracing my heart as she counts the beats of my pulse—
A cry comes from her as she breaks away. “Jerk! Don’t do that.”
“You liked it, babe.”
“What? No.”
“I’m Dillon.”
“Um, I don’t care. Step away.”
“What’s your name? You got a number?” Dillon McQueen does not give up easily. When he sees what he wants, he goes after it. He also sometimes talks about himself in the third person. “Are you a freshman? I play football. Quarterback.” Usually that’s enough to catch a girl’s interest.
She shakes her head, looking almost surprised as she touches her lips briefly. I think she mutters pigskin-toting Casanova. Then, she flips around.
“No, wait! Don’t go!” I say, reaching out for her, but she’s gone, daring one look over her shoulder as she disappears into the crowd of people.
I take off after her, navigating through the throng, jostling into dancers. One of them, a big barrel-chested guy, shoves at me when I bump into him. I fall on my ass. Heart pounding, I scramble back up, dirt and grass on me as I dart through the crowd and look around. My height gives me a decent vantage point, but she’s vanished.
Off in the distance, the football guys hoot my name, then chant Venus over and over.
Well, hell.
Legend 1, Dillon 0.
1
Three years later
A tall, ripped man wearing the tightest black leather pants I’ve ever seen struts into the Piggly Wiggly Saturday night.
Admittedly, I’ve never seen a dude in leather pants, so perhaps there might be some tighter, somewhere.
Why is his dress shirt unbuttoned?
My God, he is cut.
More importantly, where on earth did he come from? He’s obviously not one of the laid-back locals here in Magnolia, Mississippi. They wear flannels and jeans or Waylon University apparel.
I tug my earbuds out, cutting off “Girl on Fire” by Alicia Keys. True, it’s my theme song, but this can’t be missed.
I watch as an entourage of three women float through the sliding glass doors with him like pretty made-up dolls, each one long-legged and busty. They’re also all wearing some form of cowhide.
One of the girls, a platinum-haired beauty in a red leather mini skirt and platform heels, trails behind him, adjusting his white dress shirt as it billows around his trim hips, giving a peek of tattoos and washboard abs with defined hills and valleys.
The brunette—dang, she looks like a tall Mila Kunis—wears a purple-fringed suede vest, skinny jeans, and strappy stilettos as she holds his hand and preens.
A willowy redhead with double Ds flanks his left side, her hand on his shoulder playing with the ends of his golden brown hair as it curls from underneath his ball cap. Her honest-to-God black and white cow-printed mini-dress looks amazing, as if it came straight from a New York runway.
His hat creates a slice of diagonal shadow on his chiseled face, giving me half a view of one bladed cheekbone and part of a full, pouty mouth. Dark stubble covers his diamond-cut jawline, and a pair of expensive silver-mirrored aviators shield his gaze. A golden belt buckle as big as a dessert plate glimmers at his waist.
There are so many sensory details hitting me at once that my mind spins and my fingers twitch to write. Serena Jensen uncovers secret leather cult inside the Piggly Wiggly. Someone call PETA.
Wondering if they’re even real—it’s been a long week—I close my eyes and reopen them. Still there.
My spidey sense is screaming athlete judging by his muscular build and his height, around six foot, four inches. The man is practically towering, a veritable wall. Footballer, most likely—and not a Southern boy, because they wouldn’t be caught dead in those pants. At least not in Magnolia, Mississippi. Maybe Memphis, just two hours away.
“Must be a full moon or a banging party,” I muse aloud to a crate of seedless green grapes. They nod their agreement, silently reminding me that only weird people talk to inanimate objects.
“Just tired,” I tell them as I pick up a bunch, put them in a plastic bag, and tie them off. I worked a catering job for the university last night, and I’m beat.
The man and his harem move farther inside the store, and a regretful pang washes over me. I didn’t always spend my weekends at the grocery. The parties off campus used to be my favorite, especially the bonfire. Crisp fall weather, local bands, and macho games—there’s nothing more entertaining than