Not You It's Me

CHAPTER THREE

DICKWAD

"Wooo!" I yell, my fists thrown to the sky. "Nice block, 33! Look left, he's open — Number 14 is open! Ohmigod, he's open are you blind?"

Ralph glares at me out of the corner of his eye, but otherwise doesn't acknowledge my screams. Apparently, I'm making it hard to hear whoever he's chatting with.

Oh, did I mention he's still on the phone?

But that's okay. I'm not letting him get me down. I'm having a hell of a good time all by myself, thank you very much.

The four beers I've consumed are helping.

In fact, I've discovered I kind of like basketball. It's exciting — especially when you're so freaking close to the action. Since it's a playoff game, every seat in the arena is full, and with each basket Boston makes, everyone in the stands behind me roars so loud the floor vibrates. Despite the snarky side-eye Ralph keeps throwing my way, I roar right along with them.

I'm going to have fun tonight, dammit. I have to. Because if I don't keep smiling, I'll surely cry about the fact that as soon as that final buzzer rings, my one, pathetic attempt at a relationship is officially, 100% over. Four whole months wasted on a mediocre guy who won't even make eye contact with me half the time — frankly, it makes me want to weep. And Gemma Summers being reduced to tears by a man-child named Ralph is just too pathetic to contemplate.

"Nice play, 14! Shoot! Shoot!" I'm on the edge of my seat, hands curled into fists. "YES!" I scream, leaping to my feet when the player sinks the basket.

Because I'm fully absorbed in the game (the rules of which I still don't fully understand — I mean, come on, the ref blows that damn whistle every ten seconds) I don't realize that Ralph isn't the only one taking notice of my enthusiastic cheering. In fact, I'm so wrapped up, I haven't given more than a fleeting thought to the tall-drink-of-water who took the seat on my other side just after the game got underway — besides to mentally note that I'd never seen a simple jeans-and-tee combo look so good on anyone who wasn't an Abercrombie poster boy. But that was over an hour ago, at the start of the game.

Now, it's nearly over.

I sit back down, smoothing the satin of my dress over my thighs and crossing one Converse-clad foot over the other. The last thing I want is to flash my hoo-hah on national television. My mother would be mortified — not that she'd ever, in a million years, watch a basketball game... but it's about the principle of the thing.

My ass has settled on the seat for less than a second when I hear a deep, masculine voice from my left.

"Miss, you dropped this."

Startled, I practically jump out of my skin when a big, calloused hand reaches toward me, my ancient cellphone — with its cracked screen and ridiculous, sparkly-blue case — clutched between two fingers. My wide eyes fly up to meet his steady green ones, and I'm suddenly having a difficult time breathing.

Short crop of dark-blond hair.

Thick, black lashes any girl would kill for.

Chiseled everything — jaw, nose, cheekbones, forehead.

I didn't even know a forehead could be chiseled, until I saw this guy.

I'm staring — I know I'm staring — but I can't seem to stop, even after my fingers reach out and retrieve my cellphone from his grasp. He's model-worthy gorgeous. Seriously drool-inducing. I have to fight the urge to reach up and check that I haven't started salivating like a Saint Bernard, especially when his eyes scan my face, then drop to my neckline in a sharp, shameless sweep.