One-Timer (The Baltimore Banners Book 9)

by Lisa B. Kamps

  And his face was a little too pale, making the small spattering of freckles that dotted his cheeks stick out.

  How could she have missed the freckles the other day?

  Why was she noticing them now?

  She looked back down at the paper, smoothing her hands over it once more. “Why is it so rumpled?”

  He muttered something and she leaned closer, then wished she hadn’t. Well, at least now she knew why he looked so awful. The guy was seriously hung over. Or maybe even still a little drunk.

  Disappointment swept through her, surprising her with its bitterness. Not just its bitterness—with its presence. She had no business being disappointed, not when this was exactly what she had expected. So what if a small piece of her had secretly hoped he wouldn’t be the stereotypical dumb jock? It had been a stupid hope—and an obviously misplaced one. Exhibit A: the hungover-or-possibly-still-drunk stereotypical dumb jock sitting across from her.

  She pushed the paper across the table then sat back in her chair. “Well? Why’s it all rumpled?”

  Dillon raised his head, his eyes narrowed in a frown. His tongue darted out and licked at his dry lips. Maggie looked away, calling herself a fool for being so obsessed with the guy’s mouth.

  “I threw it in the trash.”

  She turned back to him, not bothering to hide her surprise. “You threw it in the trash?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Uh. Why?”

  He dropped his head back into his hands and muttered something unintelligible. She had a feeling she could sit there all afternoon and still not get an intelligent answer from him.

  So why was she still sitting there? This whole thing was a waste of time, for both of them, and had been from the very beginning. She had no idea why Professor Haslup had referred her. And she had no idea why the man sitting across from her had bothered to hire her. He obviously wasn’t interested in learning anything, so why waste their time and his money? It didn’t make sense.

  And it didn’t explain why she was still sitting there, like something would miraculously change in the next thirty seconds. Or thirty minutes.

  She rolled her eyes, mostly at herself since Dillon was still bent over the table in obvious agony. This was ridiculous. She grabbed books and binders and pens and started shoving them into her backpack, each movement short and jerky. And loud, just because she liked seeing him wince with each little noise.

  “I can’t afford to have my time wasted like this.” She scooted the chair back, making sure the legs scraped against the tile floor of the coffee shop. It was a bonus that the noise echoed around them. His head shot up, his bleary eyes focusing on her. Well, maybe not focusing. But he was definitely watching her.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’m going back to my place then to the lab to do some work. Not that you’d know anything about work.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You really need to ask?” She grabbed her scarf from the back of the chair and wrapped it around her neck.

  “I work.”

  She snorted. There was no other way to describe the sound. Any other time, she might have been embarrassed by the noise but not right now. No, she was still too disappointed to be embarrassed.

  And she really needed to get over this whole disappointment thing. It so wasn’t like her.

  She reached for the backpack, ready to stand and toss it over her shoulder. A hand clamped around her wrist, stopping her. The grip was strong but not forceful, the fingers long. Maggie glanced down and swallowed back her surprise. Holy cripes, she didn’t realize anyone could actually have muscles in their wrists. But he did. Shapely, well-formed, muscular.

  Duh. Weren’t all muscles muscular? And why did she even care? She was into brains, not brawn—something the man sitting across from her obviously lacked. The brains, not the brawn.

  He tugged on her arm, preventing her from standing up. Hazel eyes pinned her in place, his gaze almost hypnotic in spite of being red-rimmed and bleary. “So why do you think I don’t work?”

  “Seriously? You’re a jock.”

  “So that means I don’t work?”

  “Yeah. You play games. Big deal.”

  “It’s more than a game.”

  “If you say so. I mean, look at you. You’re still drunk.” She expected him to argue with her, or maybe deny it. He didn’t. Instead, he just kept watching her with those intense bleary eyes that gave nothing away. “And you couldn’t even bother working on this. I don’t need to waste my time on someone who won’t even try.”

  “You’re not wasting your time.”

  “Obviously I am if you can’t even be bothered to do one small assignment.” She wriggled her arm, trying to dislodge his hand. He raised his eyebrows and readjusted his grip. Not hard—she could pull away if she really wanted to. But she didn’t because part of her wanted to know why he seemed reluctant to let her go.

  “Where’s your rat?”

  “Slinky is not a rat.”

  “Could have fooled me. Where is it?”

  “She. And I left her home so she wouldn’t scare you.” Maggie tugged on her wrist without any real energy or force behind it. “Do you mind?”

  “If I let go, are you going to leave?”

  “That’s the plan, yeah.”

  “Then yeah, I mind.”

  “Oh my God. You’re, like, twelve years old.”

  “Multiply that by two.”

  He was twenty-four? He didn’t look it. The only problem was, Maggie couldn’t figure out if she thought he was younger—or older. Had she even given it any thought? Probably not.

  “You’re acting like you’re twelve.” That much, at least, was true. Especially since he was still stretched across the table, his hand clasped around her wrist and a look of bleary-eyed impatience on his face. Like a kid who had just been told ‘no’ for the very first time.

  Her own impatience finally bubbled to the surface. What was she doing, sitting here playing games with a spoiled jock who was obviously used to getting his way? She didn’t know but she wasn’t one to play games. Ever.

  Maggie twisted her wrist, pulling it from his grasp in a smooth—and entirely too easy—move. She ignored the disappointment in his eyes as she grabbed the backpack and stood. She had things to do, things that were much more important than playing games with Dillon Frayser.

  A blast of bitter wind slammed into her as soon as she walked outside. She readjusted the scarf over her face then jammed her hands into the pockets of the sweatshirt, wishing she hadn’t left her coat at home. The walk back to her place wasn’t far but she’d still be a popsicle by the time she got there.

  “Maggie! Wait.”

  She rolled her eyes and kept walking. Footsteps sounded behind her, heavy and hurried. Why was he following her? No, not following. He caught up to her then stepped in front of her, walking backwards. She frowned and tried to step around but he blocked her. She hurried her steps, thinking that maybe he’d get out of her way if he thought she’d trample him. He picked up his own pace instead, staying two feet in front of her.

  The wind tousled his hair even more, causing thick strands to blow into his eyes and face. He ignored them, his gaze never leaving hers.

  “Where’s your coat?”

  “At home.”

  “Why’d you leave it at home? As cold as it is?”

  Because she had lost track of time and rushed out without it. She wasn’t about to tell him that, though.

  “Because I did.” She came to an abrupt halt and glared at him. “Do you mind?”

  “We need to set up our next appointment.”

  “No. We don’t. I told you I wasn’t wasting my time.”

  “But I’m paying you so it’s not a waste, is it?”

  “It is if you can’t even be bothered to do one crappy assignment.” She tried to step around him but he blocked her. Again. She was losing patience—and body heat.

  “I’m sorry. Okay? It w
as—” He frowned, his lips pursed in a tight line. Whatever he was going to say, he must have changed his mind because he blew out a short breath and stepped closer. She could feel the heat of his body and had to stop herself from moving toward him. Temporary insanity brought on by impending hypothermia, that’s all it was.

  “Listen, I need help with this, okay? I have to pass this course.”

  “If you’re so desperate, just pay someone to take the stupid exam for you. That way you won’t be wasting my time, and you’ll get your passing grade.”

  Horror flashed in the depths of his eyes. His mouth dropped open then snapped shut as he shook his head with enough force to dislodge the hair hanging in his eyes. “I could never do that!”

  Something warm tingled inside her, a warmth that had nothing to do with his body heat. It was the righteous indignation she sensed coming from him at her suggestion, which surprised her. She knew people who had done just that. Maybe he had more morals than she was giving him credit for.

  And maybe she just needed to get inside and get warmed up because the biting wind was obviously zapping her brain. She shook her head and tried stepping around him for a third time. Instead of blocking her, he reached for her arm, holding her in place not only with his hand, but with the expression in his bloodshot eyes.

  “Are you hungry?”

  Now she must be hearing things. Why would he even ask her that?

  “No.”

  “How about we get something to eat?”

  “I said I wasn’t hungry. Now if you don’t mind—”

  “Then keep me company while I eat and I’ll tell you why I didn’t do the assignment.”

  “That’s bribery.”

  A grin split his face, giving him the look of an innocent kid. With dimples. Of course he had dimples. Maggie tried to hold on to her stubborn conviction even as it slipped through her cold-numbed mind.

  “Lunch?”

  She should say no. In fact, she opened her mouth to say just that. But hypothermia had finally taken hold of her brain because that wasn’t what came out of her mouth.

  “Fine. But you’re paying.”

  Chapter Five

  It was probably a good thing Dillon was paying. Not that Maggie couldn’t afford it—they were at a popular diner in Towson that boasted huge portions at low prices. It wasn’t the price that worried her though; it was the huge portions part.

  She glanced down at her club sandwich and fries, already knowing she’d only eat half of the ginormous serving and take the rest back to her place for dinner. She didn’t think Dillon was going to have that problem.

  She picked up a fry and dragged it through a puddle of spicy mustard then popped it into her mouth. Her gaze darted to the other heaping plates surrounding her. Eggs. Bacon. Toast. Home fries. Pancakes. Anyone looking would think at least four other people were eating with them, instead of just the two of them.

  Maggie washed the fry down with a sip of tea then nodded at the pile of food. “Can you say carb overload?”

  “What?” Dillon finished dumping half a container of syrup onto his pancakes then looked up, a simple grin on his face. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those girls who refuses to eat carbs.”

  “My sandwich has bread, doesn’t it? No, I don’t have anything against carbs. It’s just—” She raised her brows and shook her head. “You’re going a little overboard, aren’t you?”

  “With as much as I burn this time of year? Not even close.”

  “Are you sure it doesn’t have anything to do with being hungover?”

  He popped a forkful of syrup-soaked pancakes into his mouth and shrugged. She watched the muscles of his throat work as he swallowed, then forced herself to look away when she realized what she was doing. Really? Since when did she even notice things like that? Since never, that’s when.

  At least, she never used to.

  “Maybe I’m just a little hungover.”

  “A little?” Maggie snorted and reached for another fry. “If that’s a ‘little hungover’, then I’m a Nobel Laureate.”

  “Okay, maybe more than a little.”

  “And is that something you do a lot?”

  “What?”

  “Drink. Get drunk. Eat your way through a hangover.”

  “Not really, no.”

  “Yeah, okay.”

  “You going to tell me you’ve never been hungover?”

  “Not really, no. I’m not much into the whole drinking thing. I happen to like my brain cells just where they are, thank you.”

  Dillon dropped his fork against the plate and stared at her, those hazel eyes studying too closely. “You’ve never been hungover? Never, ever?”

  “No, never.” Maggie pulled her gaze away from his before she did something stupid—like fall straight into their bleary depths. Although they weren’t quite as bleary as before so maybe the food was helping him.

  “Well, neither have I. Not really. I think this is only the second time.”

  “Wow. Second time, huh? You must be so proud.” She winced at the sarcasm in her voice, wondering why she sounded so bitter. Had he noticed? Yeah, he had, if his scowl was any indication.

  “Not really, no. If you want me to be honest, it kind of sucks. I don’t like feeling this way.”

  “Then why’d you drink so much?”

  Dillon shrugged, his gaze not quite meeting hers. Probably for the better. “I was just…being stupid, I guess.”

  “Hm.” There were other things she could say, words that would make him feel better. Reassurances that he wasn’t stupid and that everyone did things like that. She wasn’t in the mood to reassure him.

  No, that wasn’t quite true. The way he looked, with his tousled hair and hazel eyes and the spattering of freckles that she could barely see now that his face had some color to it—he looked too endearing. Too innocent. Something about him made her comforting instincts rear up. Funny, because she never realized she even had comforting instincts.

  Maggie took a large bite of the sandwich, figuring she wouldn’t be able to say anything that would get her into trouble if her mouth was full. They both sat there, eating in a silence that was oddly companionable. Maggie finished half the sandwich and half the fries then pushed the plate away. Dillon glanced over at her, looked down at her still-covered plate, then raised his brows.

  “You’re not going to finish?”

  “No. I’ll take the rest home for dinner.”

  He grunted then stacked two empty plates on top of each other before sliding another one in front of him. Maggie watched him for a minute, wondering where he was putting all of the food. Her own stomach hurt from just watching.

  She took a long swallow of tea then shifted in the booth, reaching for her backpack. The crumpled paper rested on top. She grabbed it and placed it on the corner of the table, the only clear spot in front of them.

  “So. You told me you’d explain this. Start explaining.”

  “I’m not finished eating.” The words were mumbled, directed at the plate in front of him instead of at her. Was it her imagination, or did he suddenly look uncomfortable? And why did she even care?

  “If I waited for you to finish, it would be time for dinner.”

  He blew out a heavy sigh and pushed the plate away. With careful precision, he pulled the napkin from his lap and slowly wiped his mouth. He picked up his glass of soda and took a long swallow, then wiped his mouth again. Maggie leaned back, watching him, and wondered how long he could drag this out.

  He twisted the napkin and placed it on the table next to an empty plate then shifted on the bench. Then he looked at her with a completely blank expression on his face. “So. What was the question?”

  “Ohmygod. Seriously? You can’t be serious.”

  “I was only—”

  “Please don’t waste my time, okay? I don’t need—”

  “Calm down.” He reached across the table and grabbed her wrist, though why, she didn’t know. It wasn’t like she was goin
g anywhere. “I was only joking.”

  “Well don’t. I’m not real big on patience today.”

  “No kidding.” He released her arm and grabbed the paper from the table, moving it closer to him. Was he actually studying it, or just staring at it? Maggie couldn’t tell.

  And that was the whole problem. She couldn’t tell anything about him. She couldn’t get a read on him at all, which was driving her crazy. One minute, she was convinced he was the stereotypical dumb jock that she wanted him to be. The next minute, he was endearing and innocent and charming and…cute. Entirely too cute. She didn’t want him to be cute. Or charming or endearing. She wanted him to be the peg that fit into the tiny little stereotype hole she reserved for all jocks.

  What did that say about her? That she would rather him fit into that stereotype than accept him as anything else? It didn’t say much, is what it said. Hadn’t she been painted with the stereotypical geek brush for as long as she could remember? Yes, she had, since the sixth grade. But it no longer bothered her. That was who she was.

  And jocks weren’t nice to geeks. Ever. She knew that from personal experience. So why was she so determined for him to be what she hated most?

  Cindy would have so much fun analyzing that. She could just imagine what her friend would say if they were having this conversation. But they weren’t. And Maggie didn’t have time to waste arguing with herself—or analyzing her motives.

  She propped her elbows on the table and leveled a no-nonsense stare at the man across from her. “So, start explaining.”

  He sighed, much like a kid who knew he couldn’t get out of whatever trouble he had gotten himself into. He gave her one last look, ran a hand through his hair, then smoothed the same hand over the rumpled blank paper.

  “I was embarrassed.”

  Maggie blinked, not sure she heard him right. “You were—?”

  “Embarrassed.” He spoke a little louder, his voice a little rough. He cleared his throat, glanced up at her through long lashes, then shrugged. “It was game day yesterday and I tried working on it in the locker room but all the guys were around and—well, it just made me feel stupid.”