Reese sets a hand on my shoulder, smiling as her wedding band glints in the sun. “Yes, Hunter. Along with a penchant for learning languages, this is another thing we have in common—we both like athletes.”

  She’s married to the second baseman from the San Francisco Dragons, so she definitely digs the ballplayers. She also has the intel on pretty much every local jock. I tip my forehead to the man with the eight-pack. “Please tell me he’s not straight.”

  She squeezes my shoulder. “He’s not straight at all.”

  “That’s also my type.” I stare shamelessly at the strapping stud in the dunk tank, all golden-brown hair, carved jaw, and cool blue eyes. He looks dry, though, and that’s such a shame. “A man like that should be wet, droplets sliding down his chest on a fast track to his happy trail,” I say with a sigh. What can I say? I’m visual like that.

  “Wow. Do you just want me to leave you here with your salacious imagination?”

  I pretend to look around. “Not sure there’s room for both of us.”

  “I was a little worried too,” she jokes.

  But I don’t fashion a comeback since I’m mesmerized by the guy. His smile is easy, the kind of careless, slightly arrogant grin that men who throw balls for millions of dollars can sling around.

  It’s a smile that’s hard to look away from, though. Especially when he laughs, teasing a teen at the front of the line consisting of mostly men.

  The teen tests the weight of a baseball in his hand.

  “I’m waiting. Just lounging on the dock all day,” he shouts to the beanpole of a teen who hurls a helluva baseball toward the target.

  Then . . . splash.

  The Adonis falls, and yes, I do believe I have an Aquaman fetish now.

  The guy shoots up in the tank, tips his head back, and slicks a big hand through his wet hair, smiling.

  “Well done, man,” he says to the skinny teen, then climbs out of the dunk tank and grabs a towel. His shift must be over.

  “And that is Nate Chandler. A wide receiver for the Hawks,” Reese says.

  Ah, the name is familiar enough—one of the well-known out players of a handful on the city’s various pro sports teams.

  But, better-known right this second as the new object of my afternoon delight fantasy.

  And I’m going to find a way to talk to him.

  “Hey Jason,” Reese calls out to the Hawks quarterback as I work through conversation starters for Nate.

  “Hey girl,” Jason says when he reaches Reese and me.

  Reese turns to me, squeezing my arm. “Jason, this is my friend Hunter. And I have a feeling he’d be ever so chuffed,” she says, putting on a posh accent for the last three words, “if you’d arrange an intro for him with Nate.”

  And as Jason calls his friend over and does the meet my friend dance, I guess I don’t need to find a way. Reese has lubed the path for me. Now that’s a true friend.

  3

  NATE

  Admittedly, shirtless is a good look on me. So I’ve got no problem wearing next to nothing when I meet a sharp-dressed man—especially a guy who wears the hell out of dark blue pants like that. They’re clearly custom-tailored, and they hug his legs in all the right ways.

  Nice and tight.

  Hunter’s snug shirt teases me with a small thatch of dark hair peeking out at the top of the buttons.

  But it’s his face that makes me want to send roses and chocolates to Reese Kingsley. Because holy fuck. His jawline could cut stone for Michelangelo. It’s so square, and carved, and covered in just the right amount of afternoon stubble.

  Don’t even get me started on his brown eyes, though. They’re hard to look away from, dark and intense, but flecked with gold.

  So I don’t look away as I toss the towel onto a bench, then extend a hand, shaking his as Reese and Jason make themselves scarce.

  No, sparks don’t fly when we touch hands.

  Music doesn’t swell in a chorus.

  But I do make a mental note that he’s got a firm grip, and that’s kind of a basic requirement. You can tell a lot about a man from his handshake. No limp- or clammy-handed men should try to ride me.

  “Nice to meet you, Hunter,” I say.

  “The pleasure is definitely mine,” he says, those brown irises taking a nice stroll up and down my frame. Yup, he’s eye-fucking me, and I like it.

  My gaze drifts to his noticeably toned arms—evident even under a shirt. “Too bad my time at the dunk tank is done. I would have enjoyed taunting you as you tried to take me down.”

  “Is that so?” Hunter asks, laughing as I drop his hand. “And how would you have trash-talked me exactly?”

  “Oh, you know. Things like sorry you can’t kick the ball. Like one does in your kind of football,” I offer.

  “Because, of course, I like proper football?”

  I just shrug, taking my chances. “Well, do you like soccer?”

  With a light laugh, he nods. “Yes, I do.”

  “I was right,” I say with a wink.

  “But I have an excellent arm. So I’d have enjoyed trying to knock your arse into the water.”

  “Maybe we should put that arm to the test? I’m due at the pie toss. Feel free to lob a bunch of pies my way.” I make a show of checking out a watch I don’t wear. “I’ll be there for an hour. Till three. If you wanted to swing by, say, around two fifty-five, that’d be perfect timing, if you know what I mean.”

  The sexy-as-fuck Brit arches a brow. His lush, firm lips curve into a knowing grin. “Yes, Nate. I definitely know what you mean.”

  I saunter past him, stopping to curl a hand around his shoulder. I lean in close, catching a whiff of his cologne, the woodsy scent going to my head. “I look forward to seeing what you can do,” I say.

  Hunter’s eyes stray to my hand on his body. I don’t move it, though. Instead, I wait for him to make the next move.

  “And I look forward to showing you,” he says in a low, smoldering voice that’s so deliciously sexy, it sends a jolt straight to my balls.

  I take a deep breath. “Later, babe.”

  I head over to the pie toss. This event just got a lot more interesting.

  4

  NATE

  Fifty-five minutes later, I am covered in all manner of apple, berry, crust, and whipped cream.

  The carnival offers a wide variety of pies at this booth; the whipped cream-filled tins are free, but the fruit ones come with a price since they’re fancier. The extra money going to charity is getting me through the pain and suffering of all this pie.

  Judging from the mountain of tins at my feet, a lot of people paid extra to lob fruit pies at the pro baller here at the booth. Easily, fifty aluminum tins are scattered on the ground. I peer through the hole I stick my face in, scanning the crowds for this game. The line is thinning, though—the afternoon finally winding down.

  No sign of Hunter the Englishman.

  Ah well.

  Win some, lose some.

  But damn, I thought I’d read Hunter right and he’d swing by. Reading the secondary on an opponent’s home turf when fifty thousand fans boo you is often easier than figuring out what a dude really wants. Someday, maybe, I’ll be better at understanding men. I’ve got to be Mister Casual until then, so I don’t give too much of myself too soon. Been there, done that, and oh hell, does it hurt when someone doesn’t give back the same way.

  I reach an arm around the wooden clown cutout—so not sexy—and swipe some blueberries from my eyebrow.

  Waiting.

  Just a few more minutes, and my time will be up. Then, I can head home, enjoy a hot shower, and watch a flick before I take off for the airport tonight for a weekend getaway.

  Sounds like a chill afternoon, especially after a good day raising moolah.

  “I hope you’ll forgive me for being a few minutes late. It’s one of my worst habits, but I’m working on it.”

  The smooth-as-butter voice sends rushing tingles down my back as the man I ached to see comes into view.

  “Forgiveness granted,” I say since I’m feeling especially generous with this guy and his silver tongue. But not totally forgiving. “Though it seems like maybe you were trying to get out of target practice.”

  Hunter crosses his arms, a move that makes his biceps pop. Oh, yes. “You think I’m afraid to toss a pie at you?”

  Time to sass him.

  I smirk. The effect might be more powerful if I weren’t covered in food, but I don’t care. My face is a Jackson Pollock, but I will speak in my native tongue. “I do. I’ve got a hunch you showed up late to try to get out of pieing me.”

  He scoffs, chasing a chuckle. Then he unleashes a deep, satisfying sigh. “Oh, Nate. Be careful what you wish for.”

  “I’ve got a lot of wishes, Hunter.” A lot of naughty wishes. I tip my forehead to the ticket taker for this booth. “Better go put your money where your mouth is, mister.”

  He steps closer, so he’s a foot or two away from me, then drops his voice to a dirty whisper. “I know where I’d like to put my mouth.”

  Yeah, baby.

  “What do you know? Me too. Now, go. Do it,” I taunt.

  He turns on his heel, giving me the chance to admire his fine ass as he walks away. He heads to a volunteer and buys up the rest of the pies.

  Oh, shit.

  I didn’t see that coming.

  Nor this—Hunter’s walking back toward me, his arms laden with about eight desserts. “Put myself through uni as a server. I know how to carry pies.”

  “Did they teach you to hurl them too?”

  “No. Some sports I’m just naturally good at. This’d be one of them.”

  He sets down the pies at a table near me, grabs one, then backs up a few feet. He grips it just so in his palm, then stares at me with narrowed eyes, the tip of his tongue wetting the corner of his lips like he’s assessing the angle, then the launch trajectory.

  Lifting a pie like a deadly weapon, he aims.

  And . . . fuck.

  My face is covered in cherries. Ugh. Warm cherries.

  I wipe them off, then resume my standard mode of operation. “Barely got me,” I taunt.

  His grin is pure cheek. “I better try harder then.”

  “You do that.”

  Another cock of his arm. Another fire of the cannon. And . . . hell. I’m gooped once again.

  Dragging the heel of my hand across my eyes, I wipe some of the mess away, then smile through the cutout hole. At least this hole kept the pie entrails off my hair for the most part. “Maybe someday you’ll hit me,” I tease.

  His smirk is wider as he bends, grabs another pie, and weighs it in his palm. “I just don’t know if I can get you, Nate.”

  “I’m a hard one,” I joke.

  “You don’t say.”

  Bam! Mister Guns for Arms pies me. Then he does it again, and again, and again. Until he’s pie-less, and I’m a certified mess.

  But, hallelujah!

  No more pies. We are dunzo.

  I walk around the pie booth, grab my towel, and wipe the filling from my face so that I’m not covered in sticky stuff. Then I drag the towel over my hair, getting any remnants from my locks. I’ll need a shower, but at least I’m no longer a sideshow. Hunter watches me, then steps closer. “I think you missed a spot,” he says, gesturing at my cheek.

  “I bet I missed a lot of spots,” I say, coasting the towel over my cheek as my gaze roams up and down the man. “Looks like you’ve got a bit of collateral damage, though.”

  I reach out, pluck at the cuff of his shirt, mottled with cherries. “Seems you were caught in your own crosshairs.”

  Hunter’s dark eyes drift down to the schmutz on his shirt. “How about that? I’m a bit of a mess too.”

  That gives me a brilliant idea. “You know, cherry stains can set in right away unless you put on stain remover. And wash it.”

  “You know quite a lot about laundry.”

  “I do. Because I was a good boy and listened when my mama taught me how to make my bed, wash my laundry, and clean my dishes.”

  “And a good boy turned into a self-sufficient grown man,” he says drily.

  “Bet you’d be impressed by my laundry skills,” I say.

  A smirk is his reply. “Nate, are you trying to tell me you want to do my laundry?”

  I wave in the general vicinity of the Marina, away from the water. “I live nearby. I have this killer washing machine. I can have your shirt done like that,” I say, snapping my fingers.

  The air crackles between us. The flirt and innuendo practically vibrate at a low hum. “But we don’t have to do it . . . like that,” he says, repeating my words slowly, snapping his fingers like I did. “We can take our time . . .” He lets the words draw out, all slow and enticing, “. . . with the laundry.”

  And everything else, you sexy beast.

  “Let’s go have a laundry date, hottie,” I say.

  “First time for everything. Including laundry dates,” he says, his grin all kinds of delicious. I want to kiss it off him really fucking soon.

  I step closer, getting into his space. “We need to get out of here.”

  A rumble seems to escape his chest. “Yes, we do.”

  After picking up a few messy pie tins, a volunteer scurries over and tells me she’ll finish.

  “I don’t mind helping,” I say.

  “We can do this. You already did so much,” she says as I grab a few more tins. Hunter picks up a couple too, and we toss them in the recycling bin.

  “Happy to make it a little easier for you,” he says to the young woman.

  “You’re very kind,” she says, and soon, we finish. I grab my T-shirt from the bench behind the dunk tank, but I don’t put it on. Why bother? It’s only polite to let Hunter enjoy the scenery as we walk.

  I toss the shirt over my shoulder, and we head to the exit. Jason leans against the fence, chatting with Reese and Grant, a baseball player for the Cougars.

  Reese catches Hunter’s eye and pulls him aside. As she talks to my Friday afternoon impromptu laundry date, Jason arches a brow at me, asking an unspoken question.

  “What? Is something on my face?” I ask.

  He cracks up, laughing as he shakes his head. “Have fun, Nate. Emphasis on fun,” Jason says, underlining that last word.

  “Yes, Nate. You know the score,” Grant puts in since he knows I’m practicing a new play with men too.

  “I sure as shit do. Fun, only fun. You know that’s my mantra,” I say, insisting.

  “I do, and that’s why I’m reminding you . . . just fun,” Jason adds.

  The dude has my best interests at heart, and I fucking love him for it. I’ve been burned before. Trusted the wrong guys—guys who just wanted a notch on their belt with an athlete. Dudes who only wanted to say they banged a pro baller. I didn’t always see that since I’m the kind of guy who falls fast and hard. It’s how I’m wired. I like connection, I like talking, and I really like company.

  So far, I dig Hunter’s company.

  That’s why this mini laundry date is a perfect chance for me to practice my new strategy.

  “So, are you a professional pie hurler by day? Wait. Nope. I bet you’re a javelin-ist,” I say as we walk along the edge of the park in the Marina. “Or is it javelin-er? Hmm. Maybe jouster?”

  “Wouldn’t that be a knight?” Hunter asks with an arch of a brow. How the hell does he have attractive eyebrows? But hey, it’s a thing, and Hunter has it going on.

  “I knew it. You’re royalty,” I say, wagging a finger at the hottie. “Is this like one of those Disney flicks where the prince masquerades as a commoner and wanders through markets, getting to know his people?”

  “Yes, my people of California.” Hunter gestures broadly to the packs of tourists and locals alike, tossing frisbees on the grass, walking dogs along the path, and surfing in waves in the distance.

  “Can I call you Earl of . . . the Marina?”

  “Please, my good man,” he scoffs. “I’m a duke.”

  “Well, fancy that,” I say.

  “And if that was your clever way of asking me what I do for a living, it worked,” Hunter says, flashing me a grin.

  “Being clever?”

  “Yes, very impressive segue into the work topic. I’m impressed.”

  “Not gonna lie, Hunter. I kinda want to impress you,” I say, but shit. That is the kind of stuff I shouldn’t be doing or saying.

  I scratch my jaw, give a casual shrug, and go full no big deal. “You know, for appearance's sake.”

  A soft smile curves his lips, almost like he sees through me but gives me a pass. “I work at Webflix. I head up new show acquisition.”

  My eyes pop. I slug him. “Well, then, you’re just the man I’ve wanted to talk to.”

  Hunter gives me a skeptical look. “Do you have a show to pitch me?”

  “No. I’ve got a big beef with you. That’s What She Said—I was not happy with the ending. They broke up. What the hell?”

  “That was a rough one. Confession: I practically tore my hair out when I saw the screener.”

  “Right? It’s so damn sad.”

  “Dreadful. I truly wanted them together,” Hunter says.

  “We have that in—” Nope. Stop, Nate. Don’t say in common. This isn't about us having things in common because there is no us.

  Hunter sets a hand on my bare arm. “I bet we have other things in common,” he says, and it’s such a nice save, a kind moment that makes me want to kiss the fuck out of him ten times more than I did an hour ago.

  “Maybe we do,” I say, keeping it casual. “But do you like football? American football, I mean.”

  “Well . . .”

  I stop in my tracks, thrust out a stop sign hand. “Don’t say it. Don’t break my heart.”

  Hunter laughs, then whispers, “I like to watch the Super Bowl.”

  “I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that. I’m going to pretend you like football as much as I like Webflix shows,” I say, walking again.

  “Maybe I can learn to like American football,” he says, kind of suggestively.