“Yeah, you?”
He nodded. “Weston.” He held out his hand, and I just sat there for a moment, looking at it like an idiot.
“Anson.” Finally, we shook. His hand was smaller than mine but not by much, warm, with veins crisscrossing along the top. I pulled back. Should I not have told him my real name? I probably shouldn’t have, but I’d just opened my mouth and let the truth out. Then I cursed myself for caring. It wasn’t like we’d do more than chat at the bar before I went back to my hotel, so why did my name need to be a lie?
“Anson. That’s unique. I don’t think I’ve heard that before.”
Apparently, Weston wasn’t much of a football fan. I found that…refreshing. “I’ve never met another one. Guess I’m special.” I smiled at him, then froze as a heavy weight settled in my chest, squeezing tighter. Did it sound like I was flirting? That was something I would have said to Darren or any of the other guys I knew, but Weston wasn’t them, and his hand had felt good in mine. He was fucking gorgeous, and in another life, maybe I’d be with a guy like him.
The corners of his lips stretched out, the right side kicking up slightly higher than the left. “I can see that…you being special.”
Holy fuck. Was he flirting with me? Was that what this was? Christ, I’d never even flirted with a guy before, never had one flirt with me. The hairs on my arms stood on end. My feet twitched with the urge to run as far and fast as I could because…because I wanted it, wished I could have it. Wished I could flirt and stumble into an elevator with him and go to his room the way Darren would with a woman.
I was so fucked.
I turned away and studied the menu, the words slightly blurry for some reason.
“Are you ready to order?” the bartender asked, and I actually flinched in surprise.
Say no. Say you changed your mind and have to go. But I didn’t, God, I didn’t want to.
“Um…yeah. I’ll have the T-bone, well done, with the sautéed brussels sprouts and a side salad.”
“And to drink?”
“A water for now.”
“Got it.” She bit her lip, her cheeks slightly pink. I didn’t think it was in recognition but rather in interest. “How about you?” she asked Weston.
“I’ll also have the T-bone, but unlike my friend over here, I know how to eat a steak, so medium for me. Also, I’m not quite as healthy as he is, so I’d like mashed potatoes—I’m allergic to vegetables. And I’ll take a good whiskey. What have you got?” She named a few, and Weston chose one.
“I know how to eat a steak,” I found myself saying once the bartender left. “I just prefer it not be alive when I eat it.”
He laughed this rich, smooth, deep sound that somehow settled my heart rate. “It’s not alive. It’s good. You should try it. Also, what’s up with the healthy stuff? Live a little, Anson.”
I wanted to. Right then and there, I wanted to live in a way I’d never let myself. With him. There was something about him. He was funny, poised, masculine, beautiful. I wondered what his hands would feel like against my body, hard and demanding— No. I shook that thought free.
“I live plenty,” I replied.
“Do you now?” he asked, a cocky lilt to his voice.
My gaze darted away again, which made me feel weak. I was surprised when Weston scooted over to take the chair right beside me. He smelled of cologne, a dark musk that reminded me of something forbidden.
He was forbidden.
“So, Anson, what do you do for fun? How do you live plenty?” he asked, making a stab of envy pierce my chest. Damn, he was so confident. It oozed off him, and while I was confident in a lot of ways too, in others, I was a fraud.
“Sports. I like sports.”
“That doesn’t surprise me, not with a body like yours.”
I felt my cheeks flame and averted my gaze. Fuck, I was blushing. “You don’t like them?” I asked, trying to force myself to act normal.
“Yes and no. I’m not a die-hard fan of any sport. You’re not going to find me sitting in front of the TV every night, watching ESPN for highlights, but I can see the appeal. I like to win, and sports are about that. I’ve seen just about every one there is live, but I’m not a follower of any.”
“Do you play any for fun?” It was dangerous, starting up a conversation with him, but if I was careful, if I didn’t cross any lines, I could pretend. I could take this night and for once feel like everyone else—talk, get to know someone, wonder if there was a possibility for more.
“I played basketball when I was younger. My father thought I needed to be well rounded. I played all through high school. I was good because, well, because I’m good at anything I set my mind to. I worked hard because that’s what I do. Like I said, I enjoy winning, but it was really just something to put on my college applications and to make my father happy.”
“Did it work?” tumbled out of my mouth. Why in the fuck I’d asked that, I couldn’t say. Weston seemed just as surprised by it. His dark brows pulled together, three little wrinkles appearing on his forehead, and I knew I had my answer: it hadn’t.
“No. I was destined to be a disappointment to him, but now I don’t give a shit. In fact, I quite like letting him down.”
I didn’t think that was true, but I didn’t call him on it. The bartender came over then, handing us each a drink. When she left, Weston held up his whiskey. “To new friends.”
I clinked my water glass with his. “To new friends.”
We each took a large swallow. He drank his whiskey as easily as I drank my water. “So what else do you like? Besides sports.”
“Swimming.”
“That’s a sport. I’m beginning to think you have a one-track mind.”
Oh, if he knew the things I was thinking about him right then…wondering how he would feel against me, what that tongue sneaking out and licking his lip tasted like, how hard he would squeeze my hips, and how it would feel to kiss him… Jesus, I was losing my shit. “Motorcycles,” I added. “There’s something exhilarating about riding. When I’m out there, wind against me, it’s like I can go anywhere, be anyone. I’m free.” I loved riding. I always had, but I’d never explained it to someone the way I just had with Weston. In that moment, I wasn’t Anson Hawkins, tight end for the Atlanta Lightning. I wasn’t Elias’s big brother or the son Mom expected to marry a woman, have grandbabies, and maybe start going to church again. I was just me, and I hadn’t realized how much I’d needed that.
“I ride too,” he said.
“You do?” I didn’t know why, but I hadn’t expected it.
“Don’t sound so shocked. What, pretty boys like me can’t ride?” He stared at me, his blue eyes holding me in a trance, and I could see it—he was testing me, and oh God, was he gay? Bi? I’d thought before that he was flirting with me, but right then, he was daring me to have something to say about him being a pretty boy. Daring me to call him out on his flirting, but I just grabbed my drink and took a few swallows, my throat too dry.
My face was hot again, and I wondered if it was red. I’d never known I was a blusher before, but I’d never met Weston before either.