Page 57 of The Sweet Talker
“I hang in different circles,” I tell him and like the nerd I am, I snort, and tap the camcorder. “Cinematography.”
“Oh yeah?” Dark eyes leave mine to steal a quick glance at the camcorder, and for a second he almost seems truly interested. “You’re one of those audio/visual students?”
I nod and resist the urge to roll my eyes, because honestly, the fact that he doesn’t know what my major is called isn’t his fault. I don’t know a thing about football, and I kind of get the sense he’s trying to be nice, although for the life of me I can’t figure out why. I’m pretty sure he’s not trying to lure me to the locker room so the team can beat the crap out of me, like those boys in high school did to Jacob.
“You mean nerds?” I ask, with a raised brow, and Peyton kicks my ankle. I whimper, but don’t take my eyes off Landon. God, he’s so alluring, his face brutally interesting, I’m not sure I can.
Something passes over his dark eyes. A hint of sadness? I’m not sure why I suddenly feel like I’ve bruised him somehow. Jeez, I’d never purposely hurt anyone, whether I liked them or not.
“I never said that. I just mean…” He shrugs one of those broad shoulders and it’s all I can do to keep my gaze from dropping…from admiring all his muscles. “You, uh, you like movies, huh?”
“Yes. I like movies,” I respond, and resist the urge to walk through the door he just opened. Once someone brings up movies, I could go on and on about films, rambling about what I like, what I don’t like, but I don’t want to bore him to death. He has a game to play, women to impress.
He rubs a scar beneath his eye, and it flares red. “Seen anything good lately?”
How did he get that? Football, or something else? “Yes,” I say again, and he smiles.
“Any recommendations?”
Porn.
What. The. Hell.
Get yourself together, girl!!
“Depends on what you like.” I say, trying for casual when my stupid brain is conjuring up all kinds of unwanted images. Landon on top of me, underneath me…
“You should come to the party tonight.” He gestures to the field with a nod. “I’ll show you what I like.”
Holy shit, no. He is definitely barking up the wrong tree here. I am not one of his groupies, bunnies, cleat chasers, or whatever the hell they call women who sleep with footballers. Wait! My brain takes a moment to catch up, alerting me that the guy everyone calls torpedo—and not just because he’s lightning fast—invited me to a party. Did I just enter the twilight zone or something? I think I might have heard him wrong.
“I’m busy,” I say.
This time his smile is cocky, full of brazen confidence, and I get it. I really do. I get why women hand their panties over. “Come on, you can’t be too busy to celebrate our win?”
“Pretty sure of yourself,” I say in a bored voice, even though there’s a storm going on inside me.
He cocks his head. “Attitude is half the battle, don’t you think?”
“You don’t want to know what I think,” I mumble.
He grins, and despite myself, my stupid lips twitch. God, why am I acting like a dim-witted moth around him? Yes, he’s a shining star and has his own gravitational pull, but I am not into egotistical football players. My only goal is to keep my head down, finish my degree and get a job in Hollywood. Why I’m suddenly on this guy’s radar is beyond me. Did he lose a bet or something? Have to talk to the nerdy girl? If not, and if there’s something about me that appeals to him, he should go after Ivy. We look alike, except she dyes her hair blonde, and he could have her with a snap of his fingers.
“Her name is Ella,” Peyton says. “She’ll be at that party.”
I spin, and give my former best friend the death glare. She studies her nails, like she doesn’t have a care in the world. From across the field, a whistle blows, and I nearly jump ten feet in the air when a big, strong hand lands on my arm. I spin to face Landon, and he snatches his hand back.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to touch without permission.” He holds both hands up, palms out. “I just ah, I gotta go. Coach is calling.” He pauses for a brief second.
“What?” I ask as I reposition myself at the camcorder and reach for the record button. Wait, why is it on? Rattled, and pretending not to be, as Landon continues to stand there, six feet of sex in a football outfit, looming over my small frame, I flick the record button off, and close my eyes, hoping when I open them again, he’ll be gone.
“Aren’t you going to say good luck?”
Nope not gone, and goddamn that cocky grin of his. I’m going to give my traitorous body—one spot in particular—a good hard lecture when we get home. With my vibrator.
“Good luck,” I murmur, sounding uninterested.
He backs up an inch and I can almost fully refill my lungs again. “See you tonight, Ella.”