I don’t think he’s trying to be a dick. He’s just following the script. Doesn’t mean I have to.

Two women press in on both sides, wanting to be near him. I glance their way and give them a tight smile. Finn doesn’t acknowledge their presence, but gives me an expectant look.

I put on my jacket then sling my purse over my shoulder. “It’s all right. I’m perfectly fine walking by myself.”

Finn lifts a hand the way cops do when they’re about to give you shit. “Can’t do it, Copper. I won’t feel right not seeing you home.”

“Don’t go all caveman on me, Mannus.”

The guy is like rubber, happily bouncing back with each volley I serve. “Didn’t you know?” he says lightly. “All football players are part cavemen. Some more than others.”

I’d never have thought a six four, muscle-packed guy would be cute. But he is. And it’s hard to resist him. “Be that as it may, I’m really fine.”

We reach the door and Finn opens it me. “Okay then, walk me home.”

“You?” Despite myself, I pause on the sidewalk, the humid night air wet on my skin.

Finn’s tan skin glows purple in the light of the bar sign. “Yeah. I don’t feel safe going it alone.”

Such innocence in his expression. I bite back a smile. “And where do you live?”

He gives me my address.

Laughing, I shake my head. “Persistent bugger, aren’t you?”

“Again, football player. We don’t give up.”

With that, I find myself being walked home by the quarterback. With the brim of his cap down low over his head, and his hands tucked into his pockets, no one seems to notice who he is. He still draws glances; a tall, fit guy with an etched jaw will always get attention. But we walk along unhindered.

Crossing Bourbon Street is a show, as usual. Music blares from all corners, country from one bar, rock from another, blues down the street. Drunks and gawkers flow past us like geese in a flock. Finn steps closer to me, his arm brushing mine. “You see,” he says, bending low to my ear. “I might have been swept up in the mob if you weren’t here to guard me.”

I snort. “I’m sure it would have been horrible. Dozens of strangers all vying to buy you a drink.”

“Endless women showing me their tits,” he says with an expansive sigh. “And me without any beads to give them.”

“I doubt they’d mind.”

The corners of his eyes crinkle as he looks at me from under his brim. “No. But I’d rather be with you anyway.”

I’m not one to flush. I blame the heat in my cheeks to the balmy night air. “I’m not sleeping with you,” I blurt out.

“All right.”

“All right?”

A laugh leaves him in a huff of breath. “You expect me to beg?”

“No. Of course not. I just…that was easy.”

His big shoulders lift in a shrug. “I’m an easy going guy.”

“At the risk of sounding paranoid, this all feels odd. Like you’re playing me.”

His lips quirk. “You do sound paranoid. Tell me, does this paranoia affect all areas of your life, or is it just with men?”

We cross Canal at a brisk pace before the light can turn. “I’ve never been walked home by a man without him expecting something, Dr. Phil.”

“You’ve been walking home with the wrong men, Chess.”

No one knows this better than me. But I slow my steps. “Look me in the eye right now,” I say to him. “And tell me that you have walked a woman home without intending to get in her pants.”

He halts, which has me stopping too. From the bar on our right comes the sound of Elvis crooning about how he can’t help falling in love. It’s loud and sappy and fills the resounding silence between as we stare at each other in challenge.

Guilt skitters over his expression, but he tries to hide it. “I have walked a woman home without intending to get into her pants.”

My eyes narrow, and his lips curl in a slow smile. “I’m doing it right now,” he points out.

“You’re impossible,” I tell him with a laugh and pick up walking again.

“Charming,” he counters. “You know, I don’t actually have sex with every woman I talk to, Chess.”

“You don’t?”

“So dubious.” He nudges me with his shoulder. “I do have some standards.”

“And they are?”

He gives me a cheeky look. “Whether or not I want to have sex with them.”

“Your vetting processes is foolproof, I’ll give you that.”

Finn shrugs again. “Attraction is instant for the most part. Whether it burns and grows or flickers out and dies after you talk to someone is the key.”

“Look at you with your insight. And here I thought you had the all the wisdom of a fortune cookie.”

“My wisdom is worthy of at least a pamphlet.”

“Tell me something…”

“Anything,” he says agreeably.

“If you only have one night stands, how can you possibly talk to someone long enough to know if the attraction will grow?”

He opens his mouth and then shuts it. A reluctant smile tugs at his lips. “Okay, you got me. My criteria basically consists of, can I stand her for the next two to four hours? But it still holds true.”

“I want to call you a pig right now,” I say with a shake of my head. “But at least you’re honest.”

“Most football players are. Our world is fairly blunt.”

I’ve judged him. The realization is a slap to the face and not pleasant. Yes, he is blunt, which I knew from the start. And yes, his sex life is fairly shallow; he’s admitted as much. But he’s clearly intelligent and kind. Not the soppy sort of kindness that seems to be more about showing off than actual caring, but a quiet, unobtrusive thoughtfulness that’s unexpected and lovely.

Too soon, we’re at my building. Finn shoves his hands in his pockets and gives me a gentle smile. “Well then.”

“Well…” My voice trails off.

The impact of Finn Mannus is immense. It’s not the way he looks, although he was certainly blessed there; it’s the intensity of his focus, as if you are the most important thing in this golden god’s world. An illusion, but no less potent.