Chapter Twenty Eight
1187 Words
Was this seriously how handsome they looked? Or was it just me seeing him like that?
“This is how you're supposed to dress,” he snapped, breaking my drooling gaze, which quickly averted from him.
Anywhere but his handsome look.
What on earth was wrong with me? Maybe it was a result of getting the good news about Katie's proposal. That was probably why he looked so attractive.
“You can't play freely in a gown,” from his tone, I could already assume he saw me to be dimwitted for thinking otherwise.
But again, I couldn't be blamed as I'd warned him from the start.
“Well, what is in this…” I waved my hands, gesturing to his clothes, “...that makes basketball easier to play for the players?”
He hurled a frown at me, sending an expression that read ‘seriously, can't you use your brain for once’.
Which was replied by a glare from my side, “don't forget what I'm also doing for you mister,”
With that, he let out a defeated sigh, “the shorts are loose fitting to allow a full range of motion, the shoes have a sturdy sole and high ankle collar for providing support and stability for quick jumps and sharp turns.”
He just began pouring it all out with the speed of light, sounding similar to how an AI robot would.
“Woah, calm down,” I waved my hands in the air, hoping that'd help slow him down, “lemme go grab my pen and book so I can write it all down.”
It was evident from his piercing gaze that if I didn't hurry up, I might never hear him repeat those words again.
Which was why I scurried towards where my purse laid, retrieving all I needed before heading back to him.
“So, what did you say they were for again?” My brain was in full concentration mode, else I'd certainly lose whatever he planned on saying.
“Give that here,” his cold tone rang in my ears.
Without waiting for a reply from me, he plucked the book from my grip, his fingers brushing mine sent shivers down my spine.
That had struck me as a surprise, causing me to stare up at him, our gaze locking.
What was that about? Did he feel it too? Was he feeling what was bubbling inside of me?
Surprisingly, and only confusing me further, he stretched forth a hand.
The gaze broke when mine flickered to his outstretched hand, wondering what that meant.
Did he want me to take his hand? Why would he want that?
Could it be he was feeling the spark and wanted to…
To kiss me?
A low gasp left me when I returned my gaze to his perplexed looking own.
Why did he have that expression on? Wasn't it a kiss he wanted? Or did he want to go slow with just hand holding?
“The pen,” he clarified the reason for the hand stretch, only leaving me with a flushed cheeks.
Oh, he was asking me for the pen so he could write about the usefulness of each cloth.
Gosh, what is wrong with me?
Quickly, I placed the pen on his hand, ignoring the raised brow he threw my way as though asking if I was alright.
Which was something even I wasn't sure about, because what were those thoughts.
Something sincerely was wrong with me.
“J-Just write it,” my cheeks burned in embarrassment, which was even more embarrassing because he wasn't aware why I was so abashed.
His expression shifted back to the uninterested look, moving to the table beside me where he dropped the pen and wrote some things, before handing the book back to me.
My eyes swept past the words— at least that was what I convinced myself it did, instead it actually warmed at the beauty of his writing.
They were so neatly arranged, taking up a small amount of space, but audible to anyone.
Compared to my scrawl looking own, it shone like light, popping out its beauty, just like the writer himself.
“So, do you get why you need the cloth,” his sharp tone cut through my admiration, but not enough to end it.
“Yeah,” finally lifting my gaze from the book, I added, “yeah, I do,” not that I'd read a thing.
But at least I could do so before writing the book.
Which was when, finally (after all the admiring of him and his handwriting), my brain snapped in realization.
“I don't have any kind of sports clothes,” my brows drew together, “does this mean we can't play today?”
“I told Mirabelle to get a dress for you,”
“Who's Mirabelle?” For some unexplainable reason, the name of some female aroused an emotion I couldn't quite make out.
“I don't think you need to know that,” his tone, just like his expression, laid devoid of emotions.
“Uh, I think I have every right to know who's going to be giving me what I'll put on my body,” my hands folded over my chest, that action being a means to convince him to open up about this Mirabelle.
I mean, yeah, I was only wanting to know because I couldn't just wear any type of cloth.
There was certainly no other reason as to why I wanted to know who he had gone into the room to call.
“Someone who produces jerseys for the team,” his tone had a note of end-of-conversation to it, which I heeded to, sauntering to the couch where I busied myself with thoughts on why I was acting so weird and feeling this way.
It was all so confusing and equally frustrating, because this was so unlike me.
So what was this all about?
I stole a glance at him, where his frame leaned against the wall, his legs crossed over his ankle while he focused his gaze on whatever was on the phone.
Was it the jersey that made me feel this way? Because he looked undeniably handsome in the sport cloth?
Or was it the fact he was helping me out with my novel? And the emotion erupting in me was nothing but gratitude?
Or something else?
Like he could feel my lingering stare, his head tilted upwards, leading to our gaze locking which sent my heart racing faster than normal.
As quickly as it happened, I turned my direction to the book that laid on my lap, with my cheeks betraying me.
Thankfully, we were saved the awkwardness when the sound of the doorbell filled the house.
That led to his feet moving, though I didn't dare raise my head, but the weight of his gaze pressed down on me.
Oh my gosh, why was my heart racing so fast? What was wrong with me?
Worse of all, why was our interaction like the characters in the novels I wrote?
- Writer
