12 Steps to Mr. Right

by Cindi Madsen

  I tilted my head and glared at him, but considering the laugh that slipped out, I doubt it was as intimidating as I was going for.

  Linc leaned toward me, his forearm propped on the armrest between us. “The possibilities are endless. You can see who’s around and give off interested vibes until they come chat you up. If a girl like you batted your eyes at me, I’d definitely find a way to talk to you.”

  My heart skipped a beat and I quickly reached for my soda, needing to break eye contact. Damn dopamine. I wondered if there was a pill I could take, like a beta-blocker for charming pickup lines and surges of attraction to guys you knew better than to fall for.

  Then again, that was what my program was for. Taking a pill would be much easier, though.

  “There’s also staking out the concession stand, if you’re looking for someone who loves nacho cheese as much as you do…” Linc jerked his chin toward my nachos—I’d paid extra so that no chip went uncovered. “It’s also a bit slow getting out of here with all of the people, so you’ll have time to hit on singles on the way out.

  “And if you linger after the game, you might even get a chance to flirt with the baseball players.” Linc swiped one of my chips and shoved it in his mouth. “Of course, you have a thing against jocks, so…” He shrugged.

  “That’s right, I do,” I said, lifting my chin. “And jocks who travel nonstop to different cities are definitely a no-go.” My gaze moved to the players taking the field and those exceedingly tight pants that showed off their assets so nicely. “But, you know, I should still have a look around and meet a few. In the interest of thorough research.”

  “How very professional of you.”

  I gave a shrug of my own. “Anything for my job.”

  He cracked a smile. “Mm-hm. Then, after your research here, we’ll grab dinner at the Bullpen—especially if the Braves win, which they will—and there will be all these happy fans who’ll see a hot woman and trip over themselves to hit on you. By the end of today, you’ll have met more single men than you know what to do with. I feel like your pimp just talking about it.”

  I laughed and stole a few of his hot boiled peanuts, even though I’d mocked him for getting them. As a southern girl, I felt obligated to like them, but I wrinkled my nose as they went down. Yep. Just as slimy as I remembered.

  As the game got going, Linc grew more and more animated. His eyes lit up, and he constantly leaned forward and muttered plays under his breath. He put his hand over mine and, eyes glued to the pitcher, said, “Here comes the curve ball. Watch the way he throws, and how it’ll curve last minute.”

  I leaned forward, too, keeping my eye on the ball, the way Linc had taught me to in the batting cages. The ball zoomed fast, a blur of white, but I did notice how one second it was coming straight, and the next, off it went to the right.

  It didn’t stop the batter from swinging, but the ball popped up and back, landing in foul territory.

  “How can you tell what he’s going to throw before he throws it?” I asked.

  “Watch the way he stands. He tries to hide it from us some, because we see what the batter sees, but I pay attention to that, as well as the catcher.”

  I turned my attention to the catcher, but I couldn’t tell what signal he gave the pitcher. “Do you have X-ray vision?”

  Linc leaned even closer, leaving mere inches between us, and lowered his voice. “Don’t tell anyone, but I’m Superman.” He arched an eyebrow, checking me out as if to see how I was taking the revelation. “Oh, and I’ve also overanalyzed the players too long, so I know how they throw and what they throw when. But it’s probably mostly my superpowers.”

  I looked into his blue eyes, practically sparkling with humor and happiness, and it was contagious, warming my chest and giving my heart wings. “I’d be more impressed if you didn’t have superpowers, but I suppose it’s cool anyway.”

  Linc didn’t sit back like I’d expected him to, but held our conspiratorial pose as an up-to-no-good smile curved his lips. “Let me guess. You don’t date superheroes.”

  I pressed my lips together, determined to keep a straight face. “No way. Too many red flags.” I tucked my chin on my fist, which brought me even closer—close enough to smell his intoxicating cologne and feel his breath skate across my cheek. “I know this is gonna sound super selfish, but I need a guy who’ll pay attention to me, not go running off every time some hussy is in danger.”

  “I’d definitely leave other women in peril for you.”

  I tried to swallow, but it wasn’t really working—in trying to give as good as I got, all I’d accomplished was becoming completely aware of every masculine inch of him.

  “I guess that’s what friends are for,” I said, straightening and then going to work digging my notepad out of my purse. The wire binding caught on the edge of the zipper, and I had to jerk it free. I flipped it open and wrote “baseball game” under “bookish events,” even though it wouldn’t be something I’d forget.

  I licked my lips and focused on the field. “You were right about this being a great place to scout out guys.”

  Linc gave a tiny shake of his head, so small I wondered if I’d imagined it, and then turned his focus to the Braves player stepping up to bat.

  Research. I need to do more researching. I did another sweep of the crowd. Guys literally surrounded me, and judging from the ringless fingers, several of them were unmarried, and from my best guess, single. They were so into the game, though, yelling demands at the players and complaints at the calls, that I wondered how hard it’d be to snag and keep their attention. If I attempted a conversation with them, would they even remember it?

  Since I’d recovered from my momentary…hormonal malfunction…I decided to conduct an experiment and test Linc’s conversation-while-watching-baseball skills. Since he’d been over-the-top flirty all afternoon, I thought it was only fair to pry into his relationship history and use it to remind myself why I couldn’t let it go past flirting.

  I cleared my throat and tapped my pen to my notepad. “Did you have any serious girlfriends while you were in Pennsylvania?”

  The slight head tilt indicated he’d heard me, but his gaze remained on the guy at bat. The ball soared into the outfield. The left fielder ran after it, and the entire crowd held its breath.

  Then he caught the ball and Linc swore. Three outs, so the Braves headed back to the outfield.

  Just when I thought I’d have to mark my attempt to dig totally unsuccessful, Linc said, “I dated a few women in Pennsylvania. Only one seriously, but she, uh, couldn’t handle all of the nonstop traveling you mentioned. Honestly, it’s probably why it lasted as long as it did, anyway, because we didn’t get along very well when we spent a lot of time together.”

  Red flags all over the place. He dated her but never grew very attached. He didn’t talk badly about her, but the clipped edge of his words told me the end had been ugly. My heart sank, even though I’d known what the answer would be.

  “So, like Temperance?”

  That got his full attention, but mostly he looked confused. He shook his head and reached for his soda. “I never dated Temperance. Not really. We were doing the casual thing, but she freaked out on me when she saw me with other girls—like that day I was with you. I told her you and I were friends to keep a public fight from happening on campus, but what I wanted to say was she’d never been my girlfriend.”

  As much as I disliked the snide way she’d looked at me, sympathy for her crept in. I’d been one of his hook ups, too, and I hadn’t been a fan of seeing him with other girls, although I’d at least maintained my dignity about it.

  In front of him, anyway.

  Countless tears were shed as I cried about it to Ivy. Since he stopped coming over to the apartment, it was glaringly clear he was avoiding me, most likely worried I’d read too much into our night together, and boy, had I.

  That’s in the past. Now we have our friendship back, and that’s what matters. The banter, the
fun outings, they were almost enough to make me completely forget the crappy part of our past. But I couldn’t help making another attempt to dig deeper, convinced that I owed it to myself to be 100 percent clear where he stood. Or maybe I simply wanted to know I hadn’t been wrong then, and that I wasn’t now.

  My pulse pounded behind my temples. “You’re not really a girlfriend kind of guy, right?”

  “No, no, no!” he yelled. Not at me or my question, though. Our short-stop had dropped the ball, and it meant an extra base for the other side.

  Linc slowly turned toward me, his posture tense. He opened his mouth, then closed it, and gave a sound between a grunt and a harrumph. If I were dating him, I’d never ask him questions like this during a sporting event. Guys hated it—obviously Linc wasn’t a fan. But I wanted to know, and like I said, I was conducting an experiment. Maybe he’d say more while half-distracted. More than likely he’d also avoid inviting me to a game again.

  A pang went through me at that thought, which was weird because I wouldn’t call myself super invested in baseball—go home team and all, but when it came down to it, my monkeys were in a different circus. I loved that he’d pointed out the pitching style to me, though. Loved seeing the way his face lit up and how into the game he got.

  Like now, when his attention got snagged away by the next batter stepping up to the plate. He leaned forward, muttering, “Walk him, walk him.”

  Gah, I should know better than to spend time with him like this. Even with the information about his exes, I wanted to forget it, lean in, and kiss the concern off his face.

  It’d make me a total hypocrite.

  My fingers itched to reach up and trace his jaw. Would being a hypocrite really be so bad?

  I thought of all the women who paid me to give them dating advice. Thought about how far I’d come since Linc had broken my heart and left me to walk around with it painfully beating in my chest that way. The residual pain and betrayal I’d felt all those years ago rose up to remind me of how badly it had crushed me, a dull reminder of the fact that while it’d healed, it left a mark, and I certainly never wanted to experience hurt like that again.

  So what would I tell clients in my position? Thanks to years of research and teaching my program, my mind flipped through the steps and offered up just the one I needed.

  Step Seven: Learn the difference between someone who wants to date you and has real relationship potential, versus someone who wants to hookup.

  I knew the difference. Linc was a hookup guy who’d practically admitted the other night at the bar that he was more into fun and temporary with a faint possibility of more, and I’d never respect myself if I stood up in front of my class to recite steps I’d ignored myself.

  So, yes. Being a hypocrite would ruin everything.

  The batter took his base, and Linc gave me a hesitant side-eye, obviously checking to see if he’d gotten lucky and I’d decided to drop the conversation.

  “Never mind. Forget I said anything,” I said, and he heaved a sigh that sounded like it weighed a hundred pounds.

  “Look, I’ve never been a fan of labels. Either you’re with someone or you’re not.”

  Or you were until you decided it might be convenient not to be for a night or two with someone else. Then she couldn’t get mad because she’d agreed to no labels.

  “And I can tell by the way you’re scrunching up your forehead that I said something wrong,” he said, “but honestly, it’s impossible for me to focus on the conversation while the game’s going on. Maybe we could talk about it later?”

  “Of course.” Subject avoider.

  The game turned more intense after that, with us getting up one or two, only for them to match us point for point. Then the other team scored three more runs during the bottom of the eighth, and the mood shifted, turning gloomy fast.

  I chewed on the straw of my drink, since the soda was long gone. “I thought you said we were gonna win.”

  “We are going to win,” Linc said. “They’ll come back.” The assurance in the words didn’t quite echo in his voice, though. There was something else mixed in, too, and I suspected a bit of longing and missing the game was what made him drum his fingers on his leg and sit forward, only to sit back. Only to shift forward again—like he craved controlling the outcome and hated he couldn’t do anything about it.

  But when our first batter struck out, I was the one who swore—loud enough to get the attention of several people around us. Linc gave me a sidelong glance and one corner of his mouth quirked up.

  “I…” I huffed out a breath. “Well, I’m suddenly really invested, and it’s all your fault.”

  “I’ll take full responsibility.” He placed his hand over mine and curled his fingers over my palm. I knew I should pull free, but when the pitcher cocked his arm, I squeezed Linc’s hand for all I was worth.

  The crack of the bat echoed through the stadium and the ball was going, going…over the fence.

  Next thing I knew I was on my feet with the rest of the crowd, jumping and yelling. There was something contagious about a live game and so many people cheering for the same outcome.

  Linc’s excitement only amped it up that much more.

  Higher highs, I thought, but I told myself friendship highs were less dangerous. Mostly because I didn’t want to admit that I’d been breaking my own rules all damn day. Maybe even since the first moment Linc reappeared in my life.

  The Braves pulled ahead by two, and I spent most of the bottom of the ninth holding my breath. By the third strikeout lightheadedness set in, but I used every breath I had left to celebrate our win.

  “Come on,” Linc said, grabbing my hand and tugging me toward the center aisle. I thought we were going to try to get ahead of the crowd and make it to the parking lot as quickly as possible, but then Linc tugged me in a different direction, away from the exit. We went down a long corridor and he flashed a badge at a massive security guard.

  The guard studied it for a moment, nodded, and stepped aside. Then suddenly we were pushing into the Braves’ locker room.

  Chapter Fifteen

  I briefly wondered if the Braves players would be upset to find a girl in their locker room. I mean, I’d cover my eyes—or at least pretend to—when the guys came out wearing only towels. I was a lady after all.

  But the room before me clashed with my mental image of metal lockers and a concrete floor. Pale wood mini-closets rimmed the room with clothes hanging from the rods inside, maroon and blue carpet covered the floor, a baseball type mural circled the room, and TVs hung opposite leather chairs and couches.

  The air still smelled a bit on the sweaty side, but that was probably on account of the baseball players filling the room, as well as the other press people hanging about, waiting to talk to them.

  I curled my hand around Linc’s arm and tipped onto my toes, so my mouth would be close enough to his ear he’d have a chance at hearing me. “I thought you were kidding about meeting and flirting with the baseball players. Or, like, I’d meet them on the field. How’d you get access like this?”

  “Temporary press pass,” he said. “A friend owed me a favor. I do need to ask the players a few questions, though.”

  I nodded like that was totally normal and I wasn’t star-struck in the least. The players were fully clothed and didn’t seem to be making for the showers, so I guess that image was also false—I’m sure later it’d be more accurate. No reason to totally kill that visual.

  Linc introduced me right along with himself before asking the players about the game. More than once, I fought the urge to make a joke about their “pantaloons”—I worried they might not find it as funny as I did, though, and I didn’t want to get Linc kicked out, when he was clearly in heaven.

  He and Mr. Curveball Pitcher got to talking, and I only followed about half of what they said, so after a few minutes I tuned out and glanced around.

  One of the players caught my eye and flashed me a wide grin. I refrained from flippin
g my hair, but I did reach up and twirl a strand around my finger as I returned his smile.

  Linc put his hand on my back and whispered, “He’s married and known for his extracurricular activities despite that fact. I figured since you interrupt married men’s attempts at hitting on unsuspecting women, I should at least give you a heads up.”

  I quickly smothered my flirty smile and broke eye contact. “Right. Well, like I said, baseball players…” I meant to finish with “aren’t my type,” but then I caught sight of one who’d stripped off his shirt. All lean muscle, and a body built for running and throwing.

  But when I turned to Linc, every thought involving other guys faded. My focus honed in on his hand still on my back, his body only a breath away from mine. The temptation to see what’d happen if I made a move called to me as I remembered exactly what it felt like to be flush against him.

  I managed to resist that move, but despite my brain telling me not to do it, I placed my hand on his biceps, my thumb tracing the curve there. “Did you get your mysterious work done, then?”

  “I got what I need, yeah.” His fingers twitched against my back, the fingertips radiating five spots of heat. “You ready to go, or do you need to do more ogling—er, research?”

  I smiled and said, “I think I’m good. To the bar with all the happy Braves fans?”

  Just as I was about to drop my hand, my fingertips hit a rougher patch of skin. My gaze dropped to the puckered pink scar, and I traced the long line underneath his elbow, from the bottom of his biceps to the beginning of his forearm. “From the surgery?”

  His throat worked a swallow. “Yeah.”

  “Is it hard being in the locker room? I’m sure it brings back a lot of memories.”

  Linc glanced around. “Missing it comes and goes in waves. When we first walked in, it punched me in the gut, but now…” His gaze met mine again, and my heart tugged, because I could tell how hard he was fighting his emotions. It reminded me of a night in college when he’d shown up at my door, told me he’d received some bad news, and asked me to distract him.