Emma Rose

Jude/Michael: Pretty, Pretty, Pretty—

Michael fixed Jude with a sharp glare. Had Jude possessed even an ounce of sense, he would've taken the hint. He'd seen Michael Olise's ruthlessness up close, after all.

But Jude had never been particularly wise where the older man was concerned.

Not when it came to those big brown eyes framed by obscenely long lashes. That full, pink mouth, the bottom lip practically begging to be bitten. The locs pulled back into a neat ponytail, secured with a bandana that—of course—perfectly matched his kit.

Pretty.

Pretty, pretty, pretty—

Jude flashed him the signature wink that had charmed entire stadiums.

Michael didn't so much as blink. His expression stayed cool and unreadable as he turned away, scratching the side of his face, and jogged back to his position—Jude's flirtation sailing harmlessly over his head.

Jude's stomach flipped from butterflies to a full-blown hurricane. He bit down hard on his lip, fighting the goofy grin threatening to break free.

God.

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