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that wouldn’t have been professional. As a reporter, you’re always going to end up having to cover stories that aren’t ideal. You take your lumps and move on, but this particular story is shaping up to be a complete and utter disaster.
    “Sorry to disappoint you, Walker, but I don’t just walk around like this on a daily basis.”
    “Too bad,” he says, pressing his lower lip out and making no attempt to hide the fact that he’s blatantly staring at my chest. “You got a great rack.”
    His words hit me like an electric shock, causing my entire body to stiffen. No one, I mean no one has ever said anything like that to me in my entire life.
    Rack. Did he really just say rack?
    Breast! I have breasts! Or boobs. I don’t have a…rack. Do I? Racks are something girls in magazines have. Racks are fake boobs in push up bras, or something strippers have. That’s not me. I should be offended – I know I should. The strong, independent woman side of me is telling me to be, but I’m not. What I want to do, is get on the phone and call Abbey and scream into the phone, “Walker Johnson said I have a great rack! ”
    She would absolutely freak.
    But instead, all I can do is stand there in front of him with my jaw hanging open and my arms dangling uselessly at my sides. I must look dumbfounded, but Walker just keeps on talking.
    “You got a name to go with those babies?” He asks me, shaking me out of my stupor. This can’t be happening!
    “Emmy!” I almost shout, crossing my arms over my chest.
    God, I’m blushing , I think. And he can tell. I know it .
    “Emmy,” he says, mulling it over. “I like that. I’d introduce myself, but you already know who I am.”
    “Who doesn’t?” I say, trying my best to be sarcastic.
    “Exactly!” He says, missing my insult and taking it as a compliment – or just taking it as a compliment to piss me off. Which one is it? “So you ready for the contest?”
    “Contest? What are you talking about?”
    “The cannonball contest,” he says as though I should know what he’s talking about. From this angle, I can see the reality of Walker’s sculpted body. All those hours in the gym have paid off. I’ve never seen such a man in person in all my life. It’s like he just ripped his way out of a magazine. He has striations in his chest I didn’t even know existed, and the sleeves of his t-shirt look like they’re ready to burst every time he moves his arms.
    “Uh, no,” I stammer. “I’m actually from the Tribune, and I was wondering if I could talk to you about—“
    “Sorry, I don’t do interviews with the Tribune,” he smirks. “I’ll do you though.”
    My heart almost stops. Did he really just say that? Who says that? I mean, who says that? I knew Walker was cocky, but I never expected something like that to come out of his mouth. Do lines like that really work on girls? I guess so. This guy really must think he’s the King.
    And why shouldn’t he? Has any girl on campus ever turned him down?
    But there’s another good point. How many girls has Walker slept with? Is him telling me that he’d “do me” even really a compliment? I mean, isn’t that like the cookie monster telling you how delicious a cookie you are when he eats any cookie put in front of him?
    I don’t even know what to say, and for a writer whose job it is to have a whole arsenal of words at her disposal, that’s a first for me.
    “What do you say? Wanna go to my room? They’ll hold the contest for me.”
    An uncontrollable shiver hits my body as Walker steps close and slides his arm around my waist. His grip is strong and I can feel the heat from his body as he pulls us together. I can feel his strong abs as he presses against me. Every muscle on his frame is sculpted and strong. I guess that’s what hours on the football field every day will do to you, not to mention the time spent in the gym.
    Pressed against him, I feel helpless and small, looking up at him. He must be well over