Nate’s standing in my doorway, looking every shade of sexy, a little uncomfortable, and a lot pissed off.

“Sorry, man.” Jaw set tight, he turns to leave. “I’ll go.”

But Parker makes it to him in a heartbeat.

“Oh, no.” He grabs Nate’s shoulders and turns him toward me. “You stay. I’m out.” Parker turns to me and winks. “Call me tomorrow,” he tells me, laughing at my scowl as he walks out the door.

Nate looks from the closed door to me.

“Hey,” I offer.

His scowl deepens a bit. “Hey,” he says, sounding as puzzled as he looks.

“Are you gonna come in or just stand in the doorway?”

His scowl doesn’t quite go away, but he walks toward the living room, looking around before crossing the threshold of the tile to the carpet.

I grin. “It’s safe. I locked Nauni in the back room for the afternoon. She kept jumping up and swatting at Mia’s bun.”

His face relaxes just a hair. “Mia’s here?”

“Was,” I tell him, confused by his reaction.

His scowl deepens again and I can’t help but laugh.

“So, what’s up? Jonesing for another wild night?” I tease, wiggling my eyebrows at him.

“Did I interrupt something?” he asks, still standing at the head of the couch.

“No.” I reply, holding eye contact.

He raises a dark brow, his eyes hard. “You sure about that?”

“Be a man about your shit, Nate,” I tell him, leaning back against the cushion. “If you wanna know something,” I lift my hands, “ask.”

“Fine. You and Parker fucking around?” he accuses, sounding all too sure of himself.

Zero hesitation. Nice.

“If by fucking around, you mean fucking all around, as in, on this couch,” I look down and run my fingernails across the red suede. “On the floor,” I peek up at him through my lashes, “and on my bed,” his brows are practically touching his eyeballs now, they’re so furrowed, “then, no.” I smirk. “We’re not ‘fucking’ around. But if you mean, are we friends, homies, compadres, then, yes. Yes, we are.”

His eyes roam my face, trying to decide if he believes me or not. He either does or realized it doesn’t matter, because he sits down, runs a hand down his face, then turns to look at me.

“What?”

He doesn’t say anything, but after a few seconds, he shakes his head and looks away.

“You eat yet?” I ask, simply to change the subject.

“I have a pizza in my truck, actually,” he admits, looking around the room. “Thought maybe you wanted to watch something.” He glances at me briefly.

“Why you nervous?” I razz him.

His eyebrows shoot up. “I’m not nervous,” he quips, rubbing the back of his neck.

“No?” I challenge, biting my lip to hold in my grin.

“I don’t get nervous, Kalani,” he snaps, sounding just as exasperated as he looks.

“Alright.” I try hiding the laughter in my voice. “You’re not nervous.” I shrug one shoulder. “But you did bring me pizza, right?”

He finally smiles, a nice easy one. “I did.”

“Well, get your ass up and go get it. I’ll grab us something to drink.”

He doesn’t say another word, but stands and walks out the door to get said pizza.

I’m just making my way back to the living room with paper plates, Ranch dressing, and two cans of soda when the door opens and closes.

I look over my shoulder when I don’t hear his footsteps, and find his eyes zoned in on my legs. Or maybe my ass.

It takes him a minute to meet my gaze, but when he does, a look of possessiveness passes through them briefly. Weird.

He sets down the pizza box and opens it. I pass him his plate and drink and we both grab a few slices. As soon as I start to take my first bite, he breaks the silence we’ve settled into.

“I’m sorry.” He shakes his head and sets his plate down. “You’re telling me you invited Parker over here wearing that,” he motions with his eyes only, “and you’re just friends?”

As much as I want to punch him for basically calling me a slut, and definitely calling me a liar, both of which I’m not, I don’t. I’m going to assume he thinks he’s asking a completely rational question. It’s not his fault no one’s ever thrown him a curve ball, football player and all. So, deciding to fuck with him, I mask my pissy bitch and go for nonchalant.

“No, actually.” I shrug. “When he carried me out of my bed this morning so I could make breakfast, I was still wearing what I had on last night when you were here.” I look back at my food to keep myself from laughing at his manic expression. “I didn’t change until after I took a shower about an hour ago, hence the wet hair.” My face is blank as I look at him.

Oh, shit.

His jaw is set so tight, I’m afraid he may break a tooth. His eyes are hard around the edges, and unblinking. As strange as it seems, I’m pretty sure he’s honestly crazed right now.

“Parker?” His tone is scary.

And exciting.

It’s scary that it’s exciting.

“Yep.” I make sure to pop the ‘p’ and hold eye contact.

“He was in your bed?” I swear he sounds like the Hulk right now, about to flip his shit.

“Uh-huh,” I breathe, continuing to spur him on.

“Don’t fuck with me, Kalani.”

I must be asking for it, whatever it is.

“I’m not,” I say innocently, and he growls.

Actually growls.

I finally let my smile break free. “I woke up this morning to him jumping on my bed, demanding breakfast, while a hungover Mia took a shower. Then, we all kicked back and watched movies all day.” I’m full-fledged laughing by the end of my explanation, or confession, whatever it was, but neither of which he deserved.

He searches my face. Once he’s satisfied, he releases a long breath, his eyes narrowing in on me. “That wasn’t funny.”

With the sudden need to lighten the mood, and not marvel in my own thoughts about why he would care, I channel my inner Heath Ledger - the Joker version. “Why so serious?”

His smile is instant and he chuckles. Leaning forward, he places his elbows on his knees, a go-to move of his, I’ve noticed, and turns to look at me. “You’re something else, you know that?”

“So I’ve been told,” I say with a smile and he nods. “Can I eat now?”

He nods again. “Yeah, brat. Let’s eat.”

“Question?”

He shrugs.

“This masterpiece in front of us…” A smirk forms on his lips; he knows what I’m getting at.

“I overheard you tell Austin he owed you a pepperoni and jalapeno pizza for helping him in class. Figured it was a safe choice.”

I smile. “It was a fan-fucking-tastic choice.”

Nate grins, and we settle in eating.

“So, what’d you make for breakfast?” he asks a few minutes later.

“French toast and bacon.”

“I like French toast and bacon.”

I turn, giving him an amused smile. “Is that right?”

“It is,” he responds, taking a large bite of his pizza.

I laugh and take the bait. “Well, then it’s settled, Handsome. I guess I’ll have to make French toast and bacon for you some time.”

“How about tomorrow?” he asks, looking me right in the eye.

“You sure you won’t be sick of me by then?”

He shakes his head. Slowly. Purposefully.

“All right,” I swallow. “Tomorrow it is, but don’t expect me to wake up before nine.” I wince. “Make that nine-thirty, that’s hella early as it is. Understood?”

His eyebrows lift. “You’re serious?”

When I look at him like I’m not following, he explains. “You’re actually agreeing to make me breakfast?”

“Uh… yeah?” I draw out.

He reaches for his napkin and wipes his hands. “I’m holding you to that.”

“You do that.” I laugh, not at all understanding his reaction.

After setting my plate down, I lean back on the couch. “Okay, I am officially stuffed.”

He kicks off his shoes and turns to me. “Can I ask you something?” he asks, suddenly serious.

No. “Sure.”

“How’d Parker know you were talking about me?”

I blink at him. “Huh?”

“Last night. You didn’t mention me by name, but somehow Parker knew you were talking about me.” His lip twitches. “How’d he know that?”

“How long’s that been on your mind?” I ask, amused.

“All night last night, and all morning and afternoon today. The drive over…and the entire time we’ve been sitting here.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “Why, Nathaniel Monroe, are you trying to stroke your ego?”

He shrugs, unashamed, his eyes full of delight.

“Alright.” I turn so I’m facing him, sitting with my legs crossed on the couch. I lean in, locking my blues to his browns, and speak slowly. “He knew damn well who I was talking about because I told him I think you’re absolutely, ridiculously, totally and completely, unfairly,” I roll my eyes, “attractive. Ergo... Handsome.” I wink. “Though, I imagine hearing these things is nothing new to you.”

Somewhere during my little speech his gaze did a one-eighty.

No more signs of a playful Nate. No. He’s officially checked out.

He’s staring at me, eyes hooded. Not moving, not blinking, just... staring.

And I can’t move.

Can’t retreat back to my corner.

Can barely fucking breathe.

“What else?” he rasps. His voice... that damn voice is drop dead sex.

Fire spreads through my veins, heating me from the inside out.

“What else what?” I ask, low and breathy. And turned the fuck on.

“What else have you imagined, Kalani?” he dares.

“Your hands,” I admit, admiring them, not bothering to try and hide the sheer desire in my voice. “They’re your instrument; your hardware, if you will.” My tongue darts out, wetting my thirsty lips. “Large. Strong.” I steal a glance at him, finding he’s fixated on my mouth, his eyes the darkest shade of brown I’ve ever seen.

My attention turns back at his hands, and I examine them deeper.

His knuckles are wide and thick with a rugged and manly exterior; yet, somehow still graceful. Maybe it’s because I know what they’re capable of – on the field anyway.

But off the field...

A chill runs down my spine at the thought.

“I bet they’re rough,” I whisper to myself, imagining the feeling on my soft skin. “Calloused. A product of...” Shit. “Devotion,” I say on a swallow. When his fingers flex, my eyes fly back to his. This time he’s looking right at me.

This is bad.

Eyes ablaze, he holds me captive, unable to look away if I wanted to.

I don’t want to.

Slowly, ever so slowly, he reaches across the single cushion separating us and gently wraps his long fingers around my sock-covered ankle.

Pulling it toward him, he places my foot flat against the soft suede, wedging it between his thigh and the back of the couch, my leg now bent between us.

When he lets go, he looks to his hand. Placing the tips of his fingers on the outside of my calf, he feathers them painfully slow up to my knee, then down my thigh, stopping at the curve of my hip.

My breathing turns electric, coming in spurts, heady and heavy.

Moving in, he lifts my right leg and sets it down on top of his left. He scoots even closer, erasing the distance between us.

Nate brings his mouth within inches of my ear. “Are they?” he whispers, resting his forehead on my exposed shoulder. “Rough, I mean?”

I shiver. The feel of his hot breath against my skin, mixed with the tips of his hair grazing my neck...

Fuck. Me.

“I can’t tell,” I manage to pant out, dropping myself back against the arm pillow behind me, forcing him to follow.

He takes my move for what it is, an invitation to continue, to show me.

The pads of his fingers find the waistband of my sleep shorts. He scratches at the elastic with his nails, before sliding his hand up and flattening his palm against the incline of my hip. And when he runs his hot palm up and across my ribs, I’m officially catapulted past ignition and straight into combustion.

I was right. I was oh so very right. His hands are erotically tough in the best possible way.

His forehead still rests on my shoulder, so when his hand slides back to my waist, I feel his once deep breaths turn ragged.

And I can’t take anymore. I have to taste him. Like, right now.

Turning my head, I use the tip of my tongue to lick the helix of his ear. The instant my tongue touches his skin, a gravelly, and not so ladylike, sound leaves me. He tastes like citrus and sweat and sex.

“Nate,” I whisper, sounding as desperate as I feel.

He groans, gripping my hip tighter, but makes no other move.

I say it again.

His response is a nip to my shoulder.

My back arches off the pillow as I gasp, causing my body to shift lower.

This gets his attention.

He moves so he’s hovering over me, eyes wild, breathing erratic. Needy.

I tilt my chin up as he lowers his head, and our eyes lock onto each other’s. His mouth opens, as does mine, but he doesn’t kiss me. No. This lothario grazes my bottom lip with his teeth, teasing me - a perfected sport, I’m sure - before disappearing into the crook of my neck, kissing, licking, biting.

This is so, so good.

He kisses across my collarbone, up my throat, across my jaw, then finally – fucking, finally - his fevered lips descend on mine, and -

“Well, this is interesting.”

He curses under his breath, right as I whisper, “So close.”

Mia is dead.

So. Fucking. Dead.

How did I not hear the door?

Nate stands, adjusting his shirt, among other things.

“Mia.” He addresses her with a nod.

“Nate,” she mocks.

And I cover my head with a pillow, trying to come up with one good reason I shouldn’t throw her ass out and get my key back.

“I brought chocolate chip cookies,” she sings, but that is so not enough right now.

I sit up, huffing, my face the picture of rage, I’m sure, fully intending on unleashing it on her, but the little bitch throws the gauntlet.

“The unbaked kind.” She smirks.

Cookie dough, my one true guilty pleasure in life.

Damn her.

I’m assuming my face reverted quickly if her obnoxious laugh is any indicator.

She looks at Nate. “When it comes to Lolli, everyone’s second best next to chocolate chip cookie dough.”

Nate smiles, nodding his head, as if that doesn’t surprise him one bit.

It’s unnerving.

“Aren’t you supposed to be at Shawna’s party?” Mia asks him, still standing in the same spot.

I’m waiting for him to make an excuse, dodge the question, and shuffle out at the speed of lighting, but Mr. Monroe is full of surprises.

He walks over to Mia, motions for the bag in her hands - which she gives to him, eyeing him with a bewildered expression - then plops down on the couch, right next to me.

“Nope,” he tells her, not bothering to turn around and look at her. “I’m right where I want to be.”

I look back at Mia, who’s still frozen is the same spot, and shrug, a clear ‘I have no fucking idea’ look on my face.

“Uh, alright then. I...” She hooks her thumb over her shoulder. “I’m gonna go.”

“Bye, Mia,” he sings.

She doesn’t respond, but locks the door on her way out.

I turn to Nate just as he looks at me and we both double over laughing.

I reach over and snag the bag from his hands, eyeing him suspiciously.

“What?” he quirks a dark brow at me, a playful smile on his lips as he settles into the cushions.

“Gotta say it,” I tilt my head slightly. “I was expecting you to make some excuse about a forgotten assignment or something else as equally lame as to why you’re here.”

He narrows his eyes and gazes at me for a few seconds before turning his attention to the suddenly fascinating pizza box on the coffee table. “Why is that exactly?” he asks the pizza box.

My brows lift. “Well…” Then I think about it and come up with nothing. I watched him parade around at that first party with two different chicks and I see the way he is with girls at school. “Honestly, I have no idea. Guess I jumped the gun on that one. I mean, you clearly have no shame in your game.” I shrug.

He leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees, and cuts me an irritated glance over his shoulder. “I don’t play games, Kalani.” When I scoff at him, he turns his massive body toward me. “I don’t.” His voice is adamant. “I always make it clear. They know what it is and what it’s not. That’s how most of ’em prefer it.” He lifts a shoulder. “Bragging rights.” He looks away and I get the feeling he’s a little embarrassed or maybe ashamed. Not that he’d ever admit that.

“Sooo...” It’s clear I don’t believe him. “You’re saying they don’t want to be carried around on your arm?”

“There are always some who want more, but we’ve got to be careful. We’re all viewed as meal tickets at this point.”

“Seriously?” My brows pinch. “Like, Varsity Blues shit?”

His lips smash into a tight line, and he cocks a brow so perfect I could draw that shit on.

“You know.” I roll my wrist. “Star player and cheerleader in ‘love’, he gets hurt, gets dumped, then she goes balls out, trying to get his buddy with a whipped cream bikini?”

He throws his head back, laughing, and I watch as his Adam’s apple bounces up and down. “Yeah, Kalani. Just like that.”

“That sucks. Guess I get it, though.”

He glances back at me, a small smile now tipping his lips. “I may not play games, but if I want something,” his gaze flicks to my mouth, “I make sure I get it.” His eyes are meaningful, his smirk deadly. “I just never found anything I wanted to keep before.”

Before.

Before.

Shit.

I shove the bag of cookie dough into his chest. “Here, have some.”

He leans back and laughs, pulling out a nice big chunk of heaven.

Then, we watch Angels in the Outfield in comfortable silence while eating raw cookie dough.