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Marcus chuckles.
I look up and one of the event photographers has just snapped a photo of me practically whispering in Marcus’s ear.
The auction wraps up and Elsbeth returns to the stage. “The live auction will close in a half hour. Make your final selections if you haven’t already. Enjoy the dance floor. The bar is still open.”
People start scooting their chairs out and mingling. Marcus pulls my chair out of my way when I stand.
An older couple approaches us. “Good to see you, Marcus. Glad to see you get a win in the preseason game yesterday.”
“Thanks,” Marcus says.
The man glances at me. Marcus introduces me as his date.
The man and his wife move on to talk to Lincoln and Shanay. Jaxon walks over toward us.
Marcus asks me, “Did you go to the preseason game yesterday?”
“I did.”
“And? How’d you like it?”
I loved the game. Loved it. There’s nothing like watching the Thunder play in person.
I make the mistake of looking Marcus in the eyes when I answer him.
“It’s always good to land a win,” I say, keeping my inner fangirl mostly tucked out of sight.
Jaxon is standing with us now, listening in on our conversation.
I’m sure he’s surprised when I toss in a compliment to Marcus. “I’ll give you this. You kept your eyes downfield, not giving up on the play too soon.”
He made some unbelievable passes yesterday because he waited for his opening. That’s the mark of a great quarterback—and, on the field, he is one.
Marcus smiles a cocky smile, rightfully proud of himself, but with a little extra dash of Marcus Delaney pride as a cherry on the sundae.
I figure I’ve got his ear, so I add, “Sometimes you hold the ball too long, waiting for the bigger play when it might be better to take what you can. I’d watch that going forward.”
Jaxon beams at me, then he looks at Marcus, “I don’t care what you say, man. The way she fires off stats and post-game evaluations is hot.”
“Why thank you, Jaxon,” I say, taking a sip of my lemonade and smiling over at Marcus.
He has to smile back. We’re playing our roles tonight.
“Anytime, Cass,” Jaxon says with a wink and a smile.
Marcus places his hand on my back. I almost spit out my drink. His touch is unexpected this time. If we were here on a date, it would make sense that he would occasionally touch me.
He leans in and puts his mouth next to my ear. His breath fans over my cheek and neck. “You can’t jump when I touch you, Cass.”
“Stop saying Cass like that,” I whisper in a breathier voice than I anticipated.
Maybe my throat is closing up. I should carry an EpiPen when he’s around.
“How do I say Cass?” he asks, all innocent.
His drawl draws out the A in my name so it sounds like a song—the kind someone sings to you on a porch swing at the end of a hot day when you’re sipping lemonade and everything’s right in the world.
I step away from him. That accent will be the death of me. It’s like a lure on the end of a fish hook, drawing me in so I’ll get stabbed and snared by the invisible sharp hook.
