Late afternoon sun glinted off her dark blond hair, bringing out the green and gold in her hazel eyes. Unlike most girls I met at nightclubs, she was even more attractive in a normal, everyday setting, free of all the makeup and tight clothing. And like when we first met at XS last weekend, she had reverted back to hostile mode.

Just my luck: one of the hottest chicks I’d ever met hated my guts. Or was she hot because she hated me? Maybe it was a bit of both.

I didn’t want to examine that too closely.

But it was probably both.

“To my truck.” I pointed with my keys to the corner of the parking lot, where my black F-150 was parked several rows down.

“And then what?” She unzipped her black puffy jacket and slid it off to reveal a white short-sleeved V-neck underneath. It dipped down in the front, showing the slightest hint of her round, perky cleavage. But I managed to keep my eyes above shoulder level. Mostly.

“Whatever you want.”

“I don’t even like you,” she said.

“You don’t even know me.”

“I know enough.” Bailey drew in a breath and paused, watching me.

I said nothing. Just watched her back and waited her out.

Pinching the bridge of her nose, she let out a defeated sigh. “Fine.”

I’d received warmer receptions from women, to say the least.

We weaved through the parking lot at a pace that was, fortunately, much faster than last weekend’s drunken excursion. I always ran hot after games from the physical exertion and metabolic boost that followed. Combined with the unseasonably warm fall weather and my dark suit pants, I was running at a thousand degrees. I loosened my tie as we walked and slipped it off, followed by my suit jacket. I hated the fucking dress code for games. What was the point?

“Are you stripping now?” Bailey asked dryly.

“I can if you’d like.” I unbuttoned my collar and rolled my sleeves up to my forearms. I was roasting. Was I nervous or something? What was going on? “But then you’d have to pay me, and I don’t come cheap.”

“That’s not what I hear.”

Bailey came to a sudden stop in front of my truck instead of getting in. She looked at me, to the vehicle, then back at me. Her expression hardened.

“I changed my mind,” she said, planting her hands on her hips. “I don’t want to go anywhere with you.”

I arched an eyebrow. “You’re telling me you want to go back inside?”

“Well, I can’t now. You blew up my life.”

Really? Seemed to me like her life blew up, oh, approximately last Friday. It had just been raining shrapnel ever since. But it was easier to blame me, I supposed.

“I think you’re overstating things here.”