He grips his current bottled water. It’s too dark to see what his tattoos are, but I can tell they’re colorful, vintage looking. And he has more of them than he did a year ago.
“Sometimes it’s more fun to watch.” His gaze doesn’t move from my face, but it feels like it does. My breasts swell heavy against my bra, more so when he continues. “You ripped your dress off and flung it in a tree.”
A flush works over my cheeks. It was a tropical resort. And I’d wanted to swim. Everyone did. I lean forward. “Are you saying you liked watching me strip, Ethan Dexter?”
His chuckle is a gentle rumble. “I’m saying it was memorable.” He glances down, those long lashes hiding his eyes. “And entertaining.”
“I aim to please.” Crossing one leg over the other, I study him. I’m enjoying myself, which is a surprise because I never pegged Dex as much of a talker. “What are you doing in San Francisco? I don’t recall you playing for Gray’s team.”
“I have a week off, and so does Gray…” His broad shoulders lift in a shrug. “I thought I’d visit him and Ivy.”
“Wait. What?” A bad thought rises in my head, and I find myself leaning toward him. “You’re staying with them too?”
He nods, wariness creeping over his features.
“Did they send you here to babysit me?” I snap. I cannot believe he just happens to be at the same club. Not after both Gray and Ivy had complained about me going out on my own tonight.
“Yes and no.” Dex takes a long pull of his water. “Yes, they said you were here. Yes, they were worried. But I happen to like this band, so I thought I’d come listen and say hello in the process.”
“Oh, how convenient,” I drawl, sitting back against the wall.
“Isn’t it,” he agrees in a dry voice.
I snort, the temptation to chuck my cherry stem at him riding high. I don’t think he’ll care if I do. Dex seems too unflappable to be offended by flying fruit bits.
“You don’t have to stay,” I tell him. “You can inform the wardens that you saw me, and I was fine, and be on your way.”
He doesn’t flinch. “I want to sit with you.”
Okay. Right. The big football player wants to listen to moody music all night. Sure.
My expression must be skeptical because he gives me a half smile and hands me his phone. “Check my music selection.”
He doesn’t have a password—not smart—so it’s easy to look. Flunk, Goldfrapp, Massive Attack, Portishead, Groove Armada, even some Morcheeba… He’s got a veritable trip-hop library going.
I grin up at him. “You know, before this, I’d have taken you for a hard rock, or maybe even a bluegrass fan.”
“It’s the beard, isn’t it,” he asks.
“And the man-bun.”
He laughs, a short rumble of sound. “Want me to let it down?”
Yes. Maybe.
“Not necessary. Man-buns are hot. I blame Jason Momoa. There was only so much watching him bang Khaleesi the female population could take before they wanted their own Khal Drogo.”
Shit. I really don’t know what the hell I’m doing. Because it sounds a lot like flirting to me. Instinct tells me flirting with Ethan Dexter isn’t something to do lightly. And there’s the fact that I don’t go for athletes. At all. I don’t care how fit they are. Or how confident. I don’t like sports. Football bores me. Oh, I know tons about the sport—kind of impossible not to in my family—but I don’t want to pretend that I care when I’d rather talk about other things.
Dex’s eyes crinkle again, and he turns toward me, leaning an elbow on the table. “Doesn’t Momoa have a beard?”
I wave my hand. “Who has time to look at his beard when his muscles are on display?”
I most certainly do not look at Dex’s phenomenal arms.
“So your stance on beards is?” His gaze so strong I feel it in my toes.