There are two kinds of women in the world – those I can date, and those I can’t.

My teammate’s sister?

She’s a can’t.

I moved in with her to protect her from a nasty ex, not to be the next guy in line.

She’s the brains.

I’m the brawn.

She’s the fruit.

I’m the sausage.

She talks too much.

I don’t talk at all, if I don’t have to.

Should be easy to resist her.

But every minute I spend with Felicity is another minute she gets under my skin. She makes me feel like something more than a dumb puckhead. And it’s getting harder to remember why I need to keep my hands to myself.