I watch her pouty, glossy lips.

“You don’t have to stand here and pretend to be interested,” she says at last, shocking me again with her candor.

“Pretend to be interested?” Is she insane? Delusional? So low on self-esteem she thinks I’m standing here out of some sense of obligation to her brother?

Luckily, I was raised with moody females and refuse to take this bait. I’ve seen it before, and it never ends well, so I ignore her pouting and power through.

“I was going to ask you the same thing. Weird, right?”

“Why would I have to pretend to be interested in you?” she counters.

“Well, let me see.” I hold out one finger, counting. “Everyone stereotypes me, assuming I am a confirmed bachelor who sleeps around. Which is false, but one of the downsides of my job. Women either love it or run the other way, fast.” Tick—another finger goes up. “Your brother and I are friends. Therefore, you’ve probably been warned to stay away from me.” Tick. “I’ve never had a long-term relationship, which some women think is weird.” Tick. “I don’t own my condo.” Tick. “I lease my cars.” Tick.

“Okay, okay, okay.” True implores me to stop. “Jeez, I didn’t need you to tell me all that. Besides…” She tosses her done-up, sleek, wavy hair. “None of those things make you a bad catch. Literally none of them.”

“They’re not exactly ringing endorsements, either.”

“So what? You don’t own your car—big deal.”

“Some people would argue that’s bad money management. Only the dealership makes money off of that deal.”

“Some people would argue that shelling out eighty thousand dollars for a sports car is stupidity, because now you have no liquid cash in the bank,” she reasons.

“Facts. Which is why I lease my cars, but try telling my father that.” He’d rather I drove a beat-up pickup truck like the one he used to drive when he was in construction and hauled concrete and masonry around, along with wheelbarrows and other tools.

Still drives it today, and no, I haven’t bought him a new one.

He’d be too proud to accept it if I did.

I did, however, pay off the mortgage on their house, which hardly makes me unique among professional athletes.

“Are there any actual things wrong with you? Committed any crimes? Been arrested? Broken too many hearts?”

“Zero arrests, zero crimes. Boring, I know. Not even a public indecency. Never hit a photographer, never jumped a paparazzi—although I’ve been tempted when their cameras get in my face.” I have to think a little more. “I shower my nieces and nephews with gifts, obey mi madre and padre, show up for dinner on Sundays when I can.”

“Wow. You’re a real loser,” she teases. “Why am I standing here talking to you?”

“For shame,” I flirt back. “But you’re the one who brought it up. Why shouldn’t I be standing here with you, other than the fact that your brothers are assholes? What’s wrong with you? Eleven toes? Low credit score? Get fired from all your jobs?”

“I’m the worst,” True says, flipping her hair again. “The absolute worst—a real-life monster.”

“Okay, you’re being sarcastic. But why say I don’t have to pretend to be interested?”

Yup, we’re doing this. Suddenly I want to know what her problem is, and why she’s warning me away.

“Is your family in the mob? Are they going to have me whacked for talking to you?”

That gets a laugh from her, and I notice she’s finished with her drink. “No. I think I was just feeling…”

A little bummed that your brother is getting married before you, and you’re happy for him but kind of sad, too?

I get it, True Wallace. I get it.

“What?” She’s staring at me with an odd expression, and I wonder…

“Shit. Did I say that out loud?”

Her nod is slow. “Uh, yeah—you did.”

Fuck.

“Christ, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

Another slow nod. “No, I mean—ouch. But also: yes? Yeah, I’m bummed, but happy, but sad? It’s weird, and I feel guilty for feeling this way.” She tilts her head to the side, hair falling over one shoulder, studying me anew. “How did you know?”

I shrug casually. “Six sisters.”

“Huh.” Still studying me. “Well. I see now that there’s been a benefit to that. I don’t ever…I haven’t…”

“Met any dudes this sensitive or in tune?” I’m peacocking and I know it’s kind of cocky, but I prop a foot up on the footrest attached to the bar, posing.

“Would you stop?”

Crap, I interrupted her stream of thought, and now I’m not going to hear her praises for my awesomeness.

“Sorry, you were saying?”

I know I hear from people all the time about how wonderful I am; yes, it’s people who stroke my ego, but for some reason this is different, because True is basically a stranger and has no reason to blow smoke up my ass. She wants nothing from me. She was born into this life; her brothers are famous. She is not a gold digger.