My Little Runaway (Destiny Bay) by Helen Conrad

give me that holier-than-thou stuff, Reid. I’ve got the goods on you right here. I know your secrets.”
    His mouth turned down at the corners. “What are you talking about?”
    Eyes shining, she slowly unfolded the paper again. “Listen to this.” Making a dramatic event of clearing her throat, she began. ‘”I watch you every day at football practice. You’re my favorite player. I like to watch you run. But most of all . . .’ “ She cast him a look from beneath her lashes and wiggled her eyebrows significantly. “ ‘Most of all I like it when it gets hot and you take off your shirt.’ “
    His brows came together in a ferocious frown. “What? Give me that.” He reached for it, but she avoided his hand, laughing. “Where did you get that?” he demanded, halfway between anger and embarrassment.
    “It was right here.” She patted the yearbook. “Pressed among the leaves of your memories.” She cast her eyes to the heavens. “Ah, sweet youth. Young love.” She grinned impishly. “Young lust.”
    He tried to hide his grin. When that didn’t work, he turned toward the window, pretending loss of interest. “I remember it now,” he conceded reluctantly. “It’s trash. Throw it away.”
    “What?” Indignation trembled in her voice. “And tarnish the memory of . . .” She glanced down at the signature on the letter. “Margot Peterson? Why, the girl loved you, Reid. Listen to what else she had to say.”
    He whirled. “No!”
    But Jennifer was not to be stopped at this point. She waved away his protest, relishing the moment. “Listen. ‘Your muscles are the bomb’—now there’s a saying we could do without—“
    Reid leaned against the wall and glowered. “I’ll second that opinion,” he grumbled.  
    Was he actually blushing? Jennifer bubbled with delight.
    “ ‘Your muscles are the bomb. I love to see you move, ‘specially when you’re just wearing those little cotton pants that show ...’”’
    He came away from the wall in one swift movement of outrage. “Jennifer!”
    “’. . . off your legs,’” she finished, grinning.
    His shoulders sagged with relief, but she wasn’t through. “Margot was a sweetheart. Listen to this. ‘When I think of you at night, I call you Golden Boy.’ “ Jennifer bit her lip and risked a smirking look at Reid. “Cute.”
    Reid’s face was stony.
    There wasn’t much more to the letter, so Jennifer began to improvise, pretending to read from the paper.
    “ ‘I dream about you all the time. I dream about touching those gorgeous muscles. I dream about running my hands down that cool chest.’ “
    “Jennifer!” He moved forward and made another halfhearted pass at her, which she easily evaded.
    He was actually turning beet-red. She giggled and jumped up, standing on the bed, to avoid him as he reached again for the letter. Moving back against the wall, she stayed as far from him as possible.
    “ ‘I dream about running my hands down your slick body,’” she went on, waving the paper out of his reach and not even making a real pretense of reading any longer. “ ‘I dream about tugging off those little cotton pants’ . . . oooh!” Her last sentence ended in a screech as Reid dove for the paper, tackling her and landing them both spread-eagle on the bed. She held the paper above her head while he held her prisoner.
    “Give me that, you . . .” He wrenched the letter from her, then looked down at where she lay beneath him. “Jennifer,” he began, but whatever he was going to say died in his throat as he became aware of her, aware of her body.
    She lay very still, gazing up at him with huge eyes. No more teasing. He felt hard against her, hard and hot and exciting, and she wanted him with a hunger that was quick and sure.
    She could see desire flicker in his silver eyes. The morning sun streaming in through the window lit his hair, turning it to dark spun gold. His hand dropped the letter and came down to touch the side of her face,