BRENT
Brent hadn't been mistaken. She was a goddess. Her face looked somehow familiar: heart-shaped with long cheekbones, a pert nose, and eyes the color of brandy. Maybe she was a model. Or social influencer.
Maybe he'd died and gone to heaven and she was his personal angel in paradise.
She noticed him. Her stare was intelligent, exacting, and...did he see a flash of emotion? Anger? What could he have done to piss her off?
You mean besides ogling her, you jerk?
The heat of embarrassment crept up his neck. He cleared his throat. "Uh. Hi."
She walked toward him with a sashay so confident, so sexy, he almost swallowed his tongue.
"Number Seventy-One, right?"
Number 71? "I don't play sports. Professionally. I counsel. Kids." He tried to pry his gaze from her breasts. Damn, they were beautiful, tender mounds. The most perfect set of—
"They don't do tricks and they don't respond to questions posed to them."
