“You sure you don’t want me to call a cab?”
My leg hurts, but it’s not that bad. Plus, waiting for a cab might take as long as it would to walk down there. “No, but thank you.”
He goes back to humming the same song, but I can feel his eyes on me as I hurry away.
I take the most direct path, cutting across the park to get to the beach faster, not even reveling in the gorgeous flower beds. Watford trots along beside me, getting pulled up short every time he stops to sniff the trees or fire hydrants. I’m not putting up with any more of his crap.
As the grandstand comes into view, I worry that maybe I won’t recognize this Gabe guy. Besides the reflective glasses and godlike body, I don’t really remember what he looks like. Luckily, I don’t have to search long. He’s leaning against the side of the bleachers, Super Tall and a group of guys beside him, laughing about something. Probably me.
Super Tall notices me—or Watford first—and raises his chin in my direction.
Suddenly, nervousness bites. Little prickles creep over my skin as Gabe peels himself off the side of the grandstand and moves toward me, a smile on his face.
“Hi,” I say, as he gets closer. “Thanks for finding my phone and calling my mom.”
Watford lunges toward him, but Gabe drops to a knee beside the dog, ruffling his ears. “Of course. How’s your leg?”
I look down at the gauze patch Jan taped over the gash on my knee, face flaming in embarrassment. “It’s fine. Nothing a Band-Aid couldn’t fix.”
He straightens and pushes his sunglasses on top of his head, revealing hazel eyes rimmed with thick black lashes. Something about his face pings in my memory. Where have I seen him before?
In your dreams.
Okay, fine. He’s gorgeous. If you see a face like that in person, you don’t forget where.
“I’m glad you’re all right. And your name is Maddie?”
Why does he care? Do I care if he cares? I mean—I take a closer look—he’s not that much older than me. Maybe eighteen? Nineteen? Suddenly, I do care that he wants to know my name. “Yes. Maddie. Madeline McPherson.”
Belatedly, I hold out my hand. The grin on his face goes a little crooked, but he shakes it, hanging on for a second longer than necessary. Either the sun went supernova or I’m blushing. The back of my ears are on fire.
“And this is Watford? Such an unusual name.”
I lick my lips. I should flirt, right? Or at least try not to act like I’m suffering from a concussion. “Yeah. He’s my aunt’s dog. I’m just watching him for the weekend. My uncle—well, my former uncle—named him. I guess he didn’t like the soccer team from that city, so he thought it was hysterical to name an ugly dog after them.”
Gabe laughs, then looks over his shoulder to where his friends are waiting. They’re not watching us, but I can still feel them checking us out every now and then. “Your uncle likes Premier League football?”
He says football like “futbol,” and I remember that he’s probably European. Max could probably identify Gabe’s country of origin from his accent and then converse fluently in his native tongue. “Not liked,” I say. “He played for a long time. For Arsenal, I think?”
I don’t think. I know. Before he became The Cheating Bastard, we all had jerseys with his name on the back. I used to love to watch his games. It’s where my obsession with sports business really started.
Gabe’s eyebrows pop up, surprised. It’s sort of nice that I can use my ex-uncle’s career for some benefit. Considering what he did to Aunt Emma, something good should come out of my association with him.
“What’s his name?”
I almost refer to him as The Cheating Bastard because that’s all any of us have called him for the last four years. His affair with an American Olympian was splashed all over the tabloids in the UK, coinciding with his retirement from professional soccer. My blush flashes to anger on Aunt Emma’s behalf. She covered for him, saving his career and all his sponsorships, playing the forgiving wife. Then, once it was out of the news, she quietly divorced him, took half of everything he owned—and his dog. She did it with such savvy and tact that Velocity Marketing hired her to help their problem clientele.
“You probably wouldn’t recognize it,” I say, trying to tug Watford back toward me, but he isn’t having any of that. “He’s been out of the league for a few years.”
Gabe gives me an expectant look and I wish I hadn’t said anything besides, Phone. Now.
Finally, I mumble, “Geoffrey Jones.”
There’s a long pause as Gabe evaluates this information. I can feel his disbelief like a slap to the face. “Your uncle is Geoffrey Jones?”
I nod, not blaming him for the doubt. “Can I have my phone, please?”
“Wait.” The funniest expression crosses his face, like he’s tasted something bitter and wants to spit it out. “Your uncle is the greatest midfielder of all time?”
“Ex-uncle.” There’s no way he can miss the emphasis on The Cheating Bastard’s unofficial title. “And as far as the greatest whatever, I wouldn’t know. I don’t really do the whole soccer fan thing.” Anymore.
He hesitates, then swings the sack-style backpack off his shoulder, digs around, and hands me my phone, miraculously no worse for wear.
“No offense, but your uncle is an …” He pauses, as if looking for the right term. “Asshat?”
“Yes.” I smile, relieved that he doesn’t worship at the Geoffrey Jones altar like most of the soccer-loving world. “Or Bastard.”
“Bastardo.” He nods like we’ve come to an agreement on something.
We both laugh and a little attraction zings around my belly. “Well. Thank you.” Gah! I sound like my mother instead of Aunt Emma. “Can I buy you a bottle of Gatorade or a hot dog or something?”
As soon as it’s out of my mouth, I wish I could take it back. “Out of gratitude, I mean.”
“I’m actually headed out with my friends.” He checks over his shoulder at the group of people who are looking a little irritated that he’s taking so long. “Would you like to come with us?”
Yes. “Oh. I can’t.” And by that, I mean I shouldn’t. Leaving with four guys, some of whom are clearly much older than I am, is a pretty dumb idea. Even for someone with a normal IQ. “I really should get Watford home.”
The dog is lying across Gabe’s feet. I know Aunt Emma walks him a lot, so he’s probably not tired, but it’s a good enough excuse.
Gabe buys it. “Do you bring him to the beach a lot?”
“Yes.” Of course not. I haven’t brought him anywhere until today, but because Gabe is ridiculously hot and talking to me with something that feels like interest, I lie. “And to the dog park.”
“Maybe I’ll see you here sometime?” He cocks one eyebrow, and I wonder if he’s practiced that expression in the mirror or if he comes by this charm and gloriousness naturally.
I tilt my head, aiming for coy but probably missing. “Maybe you will.”
He walks off, looking back over his shoulder and waving once, just like he did after he helped me get on the bike.