“Let’s do a large supreme? With everything?”

“Don’t forget the extra cheese.” Laurel beams, her straight white teeth twinkling at me.

Jesus. I’ve never been in such close proximity to anyone so fucking beautiful in my entire, depressing life—it’s so unsettling that I shake my head to stop from gawking at her.

A waiter comes over to take our order: large pie with everything, extra cheese, two waters. He takes our menu before walking off, shooting a double-take over his shoulder in Laurel’s direction, bumping into a table on his way back to the kitchen.

He returns with our waters a few seconds later.

“When is your next wrestling meet?” She sips her water through the straw, pink lips puckered.

“Weigh-in is early Friday morning.”

“Weigh-in, does that mean you have a meet soon?”

“Day after next.”

Those clear eyes widen. “When do you leave?”

“Bus pulls out first thing tomorrow morning.”

“Where are you going?”

“Ohio State.”

“Ohio State,” she repeats, an awestruck lilt to her tone. “Wow. How many times have you played them? Is that the right word? Played? I have no idea what they call it in wrestling.” She’s kind of babbling, her laugh light and playful.

“I get what you’re askin’. Yeah, I’ve had matches against them before.”

“Wait, if you weigh-in on Friday, isn’t eating pizza right now a bad idea?”

Yeah, it really fucking is—it’s horrible, as a matter of fact, but I don’t say the words out loud because I don’t want her to feel bad for bringing me here. Instead, I go with a non-committal shrug.

“Hey!” Laurel perks up. “How do you say pizza in French?”

“Pizza.”

“Oh.” She looks adorably disappointed. “What about this?”

She’s holding up a fork.

“Fourchette.”

“How do you say…” Her eyes scan the room looking for more objects for me to translate. Cup. Table. Bathroom.

“Tell me how to say, ‘I hate this red hair.’”

“Tes cheveux roux sont beau.” Your red hair is beautiful, I say with a straight face. “Tu es belle.” You’re beautiful.

Laurel squints her weirdly hued blue eyes at me. “That was an awful lot of words for ‘I hate this red hair.’”

I laugh. Shrug. “I don’t make the rules.”

When she crosses her arms, her breasts push up. “Were you making fun of me? Be honest.”

“Are you for real? No, I wasn’t makin’ fun of you. Why would I do that?”

“Hmmm.” She eyeballs me. “Just making sure.”

“Are all girls like this?”

“Like what?”

“Suspicious.”

Her laugh is a gentle lilt across the table. “Probably. I’ll try not to sound so needy.”

The pizza arrives—steaming cheese and toppings set in the center of our table on a metal rack. Cheese oozes off the top when I lift off a piece, and I can’t help but mentally tabulate the calories I’m going to have to jog off from each slice.

Probably a few laps around the block tonight, and a few miles at first light, just in case.

Fuck.

Each bite goes down easy, warm and cheesy, and I close my eyes, moaning. Chew. Swallow.

“God this is good.” I emit a long groan, cracking my lids. “Christ Almighty, it’s been so long.”

Laurel gapes blankly at me from across the table, lips parted, eyes wide, entire face flushed. She croaks, “Has it?”

Why is she staring at me like that?

“Shit, yeah. It’s been forever since I’ve had pizza. Definitely not during the season.”

“Right.” Slowly, she lifts her own slice, nipping off one bite then another, chewing thoughtfully. “How long will it take to burn that off?”

I bite down again. Moan. Swallow. “You don’t want to know.”

“Are you going home to do sit-ups?” she teases.

“No. I’ll probably go for a run.”

Her pizza halts halfway to her mouth. “Seriously? But it’s dark outside.”

“Is it?” I tease.

Her brows scowl. “That’s not exactly safe.”

She really is fucking adorable.

“No one is goin’ to jump me if that’s what you’re worried about.” I laugh. “I run at night all the time.”

Her blue eyes start an appraisal of my upper torso, raking up and down and across my chest. My shoulders. Land on my biceps.

Stay there. “That’s probably true—I know I wouldn’t want to mess with you.”

“Have you ever taken self-defense classes?”

“No.”

“Do you have mace? Pepper spray?”

“No.” She nips at her pizza with a smile, amused.

“You really should, especially if you’re going to be walkin’ around at night by yourself.”

“Could you teach me self-defense?”

“Wrestling isn’t the same as self-defense, but I could probably teach you a few tricks.”

“Oh really?”

I gulp down some water. “Yeah, but you and your friends should probably take a class. They’re usually free or really cheap at most rec departments.”

“Hmm, what if I just call you to be my escort instead?” She wiggles her eyebrows, blue eyes sparkling, alive with interest.

I lean against the wooden chair back, crossing my arms with a firm nod. “You should take a class.”

Laurel

Rhett’s arms are crossed and my brain automatically does that thing it naturally wants to do: checks out his muscles. His dense, smooth biceps and strong arms are overlapping, thumbs tucked under his pits.

He’s huge.

My mouth goes dry, the urge to lick my lips strong. I reach for my glass and take a drink of water instead, swallowing down the first real stirring of lust.

Jeez he has a great body.

I snuck peeks at it our entire walk to Luigi’s. Rhett’s height has him standing over me by a good six inches, and there’s no doubt he’s packing a serious physique under all those clothes. Hat twisted, brim to the back, his brown hair sticks out from beneath the cap in wispy curls. Broad shoulders, each straining muscle visible under that stretched purple shirt.

Rhett’s neck cords with each swallow of hot, gooey pizza.

His dark brown eyes regard me, not a single flash of desire reflected there, although they do keep flickering to the mop of flaming red hair piled atop my head, to my lips.

I toy with a piece of cheese dangling from my next slice. “You’re probably right. I think it would be smart to take a class. It’s something I’ve wanted to do forever.”

I can’t help letting my mind wander to what it would be like if he gave me a lesson or two—that big, strapping body flipping me to the ground, hovering over me, panting.

I shiver.

Guh.

Down hormones. Down girls.

Yes, I’ve dated insanely attractive guys, guys that are hotter than even I am, with amazing bodies and better stamina. Athletes with pedigree, gorgeous faces, and…no personality.

Those guys didn’t give a shit about my safety, and they certainly weren’t trying to talk me into taking self-defense classes with my girlfriends.

Now, I’m sitting here with Rhett, a nice guy who hasn’t objectified me once—not even when we were sexting the other night, no matter how hard I tried to make him take the bait.

I wonder about his track record with women. When’s the last time he had sex? What turns him on? Physically, what’s his type?

I stifle the thoughts when the bill comes, pull some cash out of my back pocket, slip a ten onto the table.

“I’ve got it.” Rhett shakes his head, pushing the money back toward me in protest. I’ve gawt it.

My chest swells.

He’s so polite.

“Rhett, you just had to charge four hundred dollars on your credit card. You don’t have to pay for the pizza,” I argue feebly. Something about the set of his jaw has me hesitating to push the issue.