by Meghan Quinn
The corner of his mouth tilts up and he asks, “Okay, now who’s your favorite player?”
My jaw falls open, disbelief washing over me. “Are you kidding me right now? You did not just say all of that to be named my favorite player.”
He shakes his head. “I meant every goddamn word. I just wanted to see if I made a dent in the running for Kate’s favorite.”
Smiling slyly, I say, “It was never even a competition.”
He full-on smiles. “Fuck, I want to kiss you so goddamn bad right now.”
“I want your lips, Walker, desperately.”
“Then take them.”
Chapter Thirty-One
WALKER
I say it before I can stop myself.
Then take them.
Take my lips. Burn them with your mouth. Sear them with your taste. Smolder them with your soul and brand them forever.
Three words that could change everything.
Three words that could shift my entire axis.
Three words that could make me the happiest motherfucker on the planet.
But I see the hesitation in her movements, the uncertainty in her eyes. She wants to, but not enough to risk everything, and I don’t want her to risk everything, either. That wouldn’t be fair to her, because if anyone would get in trouble for our actions, it’s her.
Not me.
Before she can say anything, I pull away and face the front. Break the spell, expel yourself from making an even bigger mistake. I put the car in reverse and start to back away, pulling out of my parking spot. Kate rests her hand on my forearm.
“Walker, don’t be mad.”
“I’m not mad.”
“You seem mad. Your forearm veins look as if they’re ready to break the steering wheel off the car.”
“I’m not mad at you, Kate. I’m mad at the situation.”
She sighs. “I want to kiss you.”
“I know you do. I can see you want to kiss me in the way your body reacts to mine, but there’s a heavy dose of uncertainty in your every move, and I don’t want you to be uncertain about anything when it comes to whatever this is between us.” I pull out onto the road and say, “What grocery store?”
“Walt’s, on Greene Street.”
I nod and head in that direction. We probably have a good twenty minutes in the car together. Not enough time for my liking, but I’ll take what I can get.
“Can we talk about something else?” she asks, her voice sounding sad. I hate that. I don’t ever want her to sound sad around me. But given the circumstances, it doesn’t seem as though we can avoid the sadness that etches her words.
“What do you want to talk about?”
“I don’t know. Something stupid, mindless, something that isn’t going to increase this burning pain I have that intensifies whenever you’re around.”
When I stop at a stoplight, I glance over at her and say, “I have the same pain, if that makes you feel better.”
“It doesn’t.” She picks at a piece of lint mindlessly.
Even though we shouldn’t show any form of intimacy toward each other, I reach over and take her hand in mine, weaving our fingers together so our palms are connected—locked. She stares down at our connection, and when I start driving again, I’m almost afraid she’s going to pull away, but instead, she squeezes my hand tighter and leans across the console to rest her head against my shoulder.
A wave of her luscious-smelling perfume invades my space, followed by the silky softness of her hair floating over my shoulder and down my arm. I relish in the feel of her pressed against my body, the way her hair tickles my chin when I move my head over to hers, of how her hand fits so perfectly in my large one.
We’re crossing a line, a big one, but neither one of us can seem to stop ourselves.
And I don’t think we want to stop, no matter the risk.
“Tell me something really random,” she says.
“Something stupid I’ve done?”
She nods against my shoulder. “Yeah, I need you to make yourself look not so wonderful in my eyes right now or else I might just break down and cry. So, tell me something terrible about you, something you did that was really idiotic.”
“We might be here all night.”
She chuckles. “Just tell me one thing. Save the others for later when I’m having the same feeling. When all I want is you, holding me.”
I think back to all the stupid shit I’ve done over the years and try to pick out the best story. Something that’s going to make her laugh but also not completely scare her away, because I don’t want her pulling away . . . ever.
“Are you sure you want to hear this?”
“Lay it on me.”
“Okay.” I think on it for a few more seconds before saying, “When I was in third grade, I was a terror, a real dick.”
“I can’t imagine that being the truth.”
“Believe me, I was. I was an ass to most of my classmates but I would never bully, just, you know . . . steal shit.”
“Wow, what a great guy. Is that all?” She chuckles.
“No, smart-ass.” I laugh. “It was Dan Ramsey’s show-and-tell day. This kid was a dick right back to me. We formed a sort of rivalry.”
“Seems as if you’re prone to that,” she says, referring to me and Penn.
“Maybe I rub people the wrong way.”
“Seems as if you know how to rub them the right way, too,” she says as she snuggles in closer.
Fuck. Me.
Through a clenched jaw, I say, “Unless you want me to pull off on the side of the road right now and eat your pussy, I suggest you watch what you say.”
“Noted,” she says, her voice catching in her throat. “Okay, continue with your story.”
“Dan was showing off his favorite pizza, talking all about how pineapple and ham is the best pizza topping when, clearly—”
“Pepperoni is,” Kate finishes for me.
“Obviously,” I answer, feeling so relaxed around her. “He was being a total ass about it and throwing me under the bus in front of the ladies for liking pepperoni and not some exotic bullshit topping like pineapple. So, I did what any other guy in my position would’ve done. I came up behind him, grabbed the hem of his shorts, and tore them down his legs.”
“You pantsed him?”
I nod unapologetically. “Yup, flipped those shorts down, exposing his underwear to all the girls, which was white with Batman on the crotch, in case you were wondering.”
“Oh my God.” She lifts off my shoulder to look me in the face. “I can’t believe you pantsed the poor guy. He must have been humiliated.”
“He waddled after me, pants at his ankles, until he tripped and fell, tighty-whities up in the air for all to see.”
“Walker, that’s terrible.”
“I was suspended for a few days and I had to write an apology note not only to Dan, but to the girls, too. I was also grounded for a month and forced to read Moby Dick and write a report on it.”
“The teacher assigned you Moby Dick in third grade?”
“No, my dad did. He used reading as a punishment since I hated it so much.”
“That doesn’t seem like a good punishment, putting a negative connotation on something that should be positive.”
“That’s what my mom said.” I clear my throat and say, “But the joke was on me because now I like reading, a lot.”
“What?” She pulls away again, this time removing her hand from mine. “You like reading?”
I reach for her hand again but she keeps it away.
“Yeah, what’s wrong with that?”
“There’s nothing wrong with that other than I specifically told you to tell me something that would make me like you a little less, and then you go and tell me that you’re a reader. That’s not playing the game fairly, Walker. You’re playing dirty.”
A chuckle rumbles out of my chest. “Give me your hand.” I hold out my palm, waiting for her soft hand to slip in
to mine.
“No.” She tucks it away. “I need to keep my distance.” From the corner of my eye, I can see her shake her head, almost as if she’s disappointed.
“Kate. Hand. Now.”
“No.”
“Kate . . .”
Chapter Thirty-Two
KATE
No.
There is no way I am giving that man my hand back.
Yes, the pantsing story was exactly what I needed, a reality check advertising that the man who sits next to me, the one who smells mountain fresh and has boulders for biceps, isn’t who I really think he is—the perfect catch, no pun intended.
And even though the story was from third grade—I was hoping for something more recent—I still thought it cut him down a millimeter from the pedestal I hold him up on.
But then he has to go and tell me he reads.
I don’t think there’s anything sexier than seeing a guy with a book in his hand.
I like it so much that I follow an Instagram account that’s purely dedicated to hot guys reading in public. Their hands are always curled around the pages, the books worn and well-loved, and it’s sexy as fuck.
And now that’s all I can picture. Walker, casually in his jeans and baseball hat, on the airplane going to another state, book in hand, the pages he’s read curled around the front as he has a look of utter concentration across his face. And then I get another picture of Walker, thanks to the ice bath I walked in on the other week.
Walker in his jeans, barefoot, lying back on a couch—shirtless, of course—book in hand, one arm behind his neck, intense look on his face. All I can see in my mind is ripped muscles, strength, and gorgeous, gorgeous skin. Walker’s skin. Walker’s erect nipples.
It’s making my skin tingle, the juncture between my thighs throbs, the need for this man growing with more potency than before.
A reader.
No way.
“Don’t make me ask again,” he says, still holding his hand out.
I don’t comply; instead, I say, “Just tell me this—what kind of books do you read? If you say romance, I’m going to need you to pull this car over right away.”
He chuckles . . . again. That sound, vibrating through my veins, making my nipples hard on the spot.
“Nah, not a romance kind of guy. Mainly autobiographies. I find other people’s lives fascinating.”
I sigh in relief. Okay, I can deal with that . . . sort of. He still reads.
“E-reader or actual book?”
“E-reader.” He reaches over and snags my hand before I can pull it away. He then jerks his head and says, “Get back over here.”
“I’m too afraid.”
“This is all I get with you, Kate. Please.”
Well . . . when he puts it like that, I’ll do just about anything. I lean my head against his strong shoulder and get comfortable again. Quietly, I hear him sigh in relief.
This overpowering, masculine man just sighed when I rested my head on his shoulder. How is that even possible?
How did we get to the point where we both feel this undeniable need to be near each other?
When did we blur the lines?
And how far are we going to go before it’s too late?
Gathering myself, I say, “I would’ve pictured you as a paperback kind of guy.”
“I still am, on occasion, especially during the off-season, but when we’re traveling, it’s easier to carry my e-reader around with me. That way when I finish a book, I can start another one right away.”
“Makes sense.” I bite my bottom lip. “So, just autobiographies? That can’t be easy jumping from one to another.”
“I mix a suspense in there every once in a while. Gillian Flynn’s novels are all kinds of fucked up.”
“You read Gillian Flynn?” I ask, growing excited.
“Yup,” he answers matter-of-factly. “Just finished Sharp Objects.”
“Gah, are you going to watch the show now on HBO?”
“Yeah, subscribed just to see how it was translated.”
“Ugh,” I groan and snuggle in even closer. “Could you imagine? If we were actually able to date, I would totally make you wait for me to watch every episode.”
“We could still watch it together.”
I laugh out loud. “Okay, that’s probably the worst idea you’ve ever had.”
“Why?”
“Because, do you really think you’d be able to keep your hands to yourself?”
“Awfully full of yourself, aren’t you?” he asks in a teasing tone.
“Every time I see you, you stare at my breasts for at least a solid ten seconds. I’m pretty sure you wouldn’t be able to help yourself if you were sitting next to me on a couch.”
“I would. Try me.”
“No way.” I laugh. “You’re just saying that now. I think I know you well enough, Walker, where that wouldn’t be the truth.”
“Still, I think we should try it.”
I squeeze his hand. “Not going to happen.”
“You sure? I have the rest of the night off. You can come over to my place, we can pop some popcorn, watch the show . . .”
It’s enticing. So enticing that I actually give it some thought. Could I go to his place, be immersed in his space, sit on his couch next to him, and focus on a show without being distracted by the way he most likely stretches out on his couch, wondering if he’s going to make a move at any point?
Would I really be able to behave myself?
Am I seriously considering the offer?
Chapter Thirty-Three
WALKER
She’s quiet, and when I glance over at her, I can see her mulling over the idea.
Hell, I just threw it out there, half serious, but if she says yes, I’ll make a beeline to my apartment right now.
She nibbles on her bottom lip, contemplating. Finally, she says, “It’s not a good idea.”
“It’s not, but I still want you to come over.” I stop at a light and lift her chin so I can look her in the eyes. “I’m going out on the road. I won’t see you for a while, right?”
“I’m staying in Chicago to work on the ball.”
“Exactly. Come over, hang out. Be with me for a few more hours.”
“Walker . . .”
“Please,” I say, pulling out the big guns. I can’t hold back. I want to be around her. I want to know more about her. I want to see what she looks like in the morning after a long night’s sleep in my arms.
She searches my eyes for a few heartbeats and then says, “Okay.”
“Okay?” I ask, surprised. “Really?”
“Don’t make me change my mind.”
A burst of hope springs in my chest as I make a quick right-hand turn and head straight to my apartment, holding this woman captive. She said yes.
She fucking said yes.
I don’t know what the hell I’m going to do, or how I’m going to handle being on my best behavior around her, but all I know is I have a few more hours with her before I have to say goodbye.
“I expected a nicer apartment,” she says, taking in my high ceilings and large windows that span across the whole front side of my space.
“What?” I ask, shutting the door behind me.
She chuckles and says, “I’m only kidding. This place is really nice. The view is amazing.”
I take her hand in mine, a gesture I seem to enjoy, and bring her to the windows, where I sandwich her between me and the glass—giving her some space, but not too much—and lift my arm in front of her and point. “Can you see the stadium?”
“Look at that, I can. Looks as though the game is still going on.”
“Nah, it’s all wrapped up, I got a notification about the win. Nineteen to zero. Shutout.”
“You get notifications on your phone about your games?” She turns her head to look at me quizzically, her face so close to mine.
“I like to read about how we did, how the reporters interpreted everything, not jus
t about us, but the other team, too. The more I can educate myself, the better.”
“I guess that makes sense. Do you ever get mad if they write something negative about you?”
“Nah, because I usually agree with them.”
She turns around to face me, but I don’t move. Instead, I tuck a few strands of her hair behind her ear. “Something you should know about me—I don’t think my talent walks on water. I know when I play like shit and I’m the first one to reprimand myself about it. If someone says something negative about the way I play, then they’re probably telling the truth. It’s the other stuff that makes me want to rip walls apart and slam heads into the drywall.”
“What other stuff?”
“The non-baseball aspect. My personal life, my attitude, all that bullshit. I think reporters have taken aspects out of the game, and rather than focusing on how it’s played, they try to dive in psychologically.”
“But isn’t that baseball? Eighty percent mental? Twenty percent physical?”
“Yes, but why can’t a guy beat the fuck out of a cooler and not get in trouble for it?”
She laughs and tugs on the hem of my T-shirt before walking over to the couch, where she takes a seat, folding her legs underneath her. “Because that’s poor sportsmanship, Walker. There are kids who look up to you. You’re a professional baseball player, and with the title comes the responsibility.”
Hell, when she puts it like that . . .
“I get it. You get frustrated with yourself and you need to release your anger, but you also have a responsibility to keep it together, to show everyone that even though you struck out and left runners on the bases, you don’t need to break your bat over your knee.”
I take a seat next to her and sink into the couch. “But what about my personal life? Shouldn’t I be able to go volunteer without making a big deal about it?”
“Yes, I think you should, but unfortunately, the Bobbies own you, and you’re a product of their brand. They want you representing them in a positive light, and if that means exposing you as a do-gooder by having media show up while you’re being the decent human being that you are, then that’s what’s going to happen.”