Page 27 of Your Rule to Break
I step into him, putting one hand on his stomach, and it’s met with hard muscles. My throat is dry—I need water. He tips his head closer to mine, makes sure we’re both in the frame, and takes a few pictures.
“Turn around. I want a picture of my jersey.” He smiles in a way that makes it impossible to tell him no.
I turn, my back on full display.
“Can’t get enough of yourself, can ya, Zack?” a teammate asks, all in good fun.
Feeling like I gave Zack enough time to get the picture he wanted, I turn back, just as Zack says, “When you get someone this gorgeous in your jersey, you soak it in any way you can.”
Charming as fuck. He always is.
“French fries and ice cream?” he asks.
There’s only one answer to that. “Absolutely.”
Zack intertwines his fingers with mine, and warmth spreads over my entire body. It’s his hand in mine. Him calling me gorgeous. Him looking at me like that.
We walk to the exit, and Zack reaches for the door but pauses before he opens it. He doesn’t ask if I’m ready or warn me about what’s on the other side. Instead, he looks me square in the face and says, “Fuck. I can’t get over you in my jersey.”
When he opens the door, the first thing anyone sees is me beaming at him—a million watts, no shame. He’s looking at me like I’m something special, something to keep. His eyes fall to the lace, where it hits mid-thighs. Now he’s looking at me like something he wants to devour.
Get it together, Emilie.
My mind zones out the sound of the press vying for Zack’s attention, asking borderline inappropriate questions about the two of us. It’s almost like everything is muffled and my brain has run out of room—no computing power left.
That’s what his fucking smirk does to me.
Right as we’re through the paparazzi, a blonde woman—someone I don’t know—is standing there with her hands on her hips, clearly waiting for Zack.
“Oh, fuck,” he groans as soon as he sees her.
She’s hard to miss, considering she might be one of the most beautiful humans I’ve seen in real life. Model status. The kind of features that people dream about, the kind artists paint.
“Baby, you never called me back,” the blonde woman says, taking a step toward him, like he’s not holding my hand.
Does she not see me standing right here?
“No, I haven’t.” Zack looks at me, reinforcing the point, and she turns, recognizing my presence for the first time. Bold.
“I thought we had fun,” she pouts—like actually puts out her bottom lip.
Zack squeezes my hand, obviously uncomfortable. “We did have fun, but I thought I was clear, no strings.”
“Thought you didn’t do relationships?” she asks, looking not at me but at our hands intertwined.
The call out to Zack not doing relationships stings. To be fair, I’ve never met one of Zack’s girlfriends or dates who managed to stick around for more than a week.
He shrugs. “Guess that changes when the right person comes along.”
“I found us a third, if you ever change your mind. She’s the Calvin Klein model that’s all over the city right now.” This bombshell offers up a threesome like she has an extra coupon for a free coffee and is trying to give it to a stranger. Also, I think I know what model she’s talking about, and all I can think is ‘wow.’
Zack laughs. “I’m going to pass, Cassie. Thanks, though.” He starts walking past her.
“Here,” she says, putting an envelope into his chest. Where the hell was she keeping that?
He looks at her, and her hand touching him, before he takes the envelope and we keep walking.
Zack doesn’t say anything as we get situated in the car—the envelope is sitting on the console.