Make Me Yours (Top Shelf Romance Book 4)

by Devney Perry

  “What was I supposed to do? Cause a scene? I tried to escape, tried to explain I was on a date with you, but she wouldn’t let me go.”

  “She just wanted to see if the apple fell far from the tree,” I snicker, earning me a stern glare.

  “Funny.”

  “Well, it was nice of you to stick it out.” His glare is back, and I try to smother my laughter. He just walks ahead of me and shakes his head. “Look, I’m sorry. You were being very kind to her. She is probably lonely, and you just made her night.”

  “And that’s why I wasn’t rude. She just wanted to feel important.”

  And so you let her have that moment.

  It’s one surprise after another with him, and the revelation only makes me want to get to know him further. “You better watch out, or I might change my opinion of you.”

  “You have opinions of me? What might those be?” he asks, voice playful but eyes serious as he takes my hand to stop me. We’re standing on a sidewalk in the middle of downtown Austin, his truck left in the bar’s parking lot and mine a few blocks ahead in the stadium’s parking lot. We decided to walk off the alcohol, but we’re not walking now.

  We’re standing with my back to the brick wall of the building and this surprise of a man standing in front of me.

  “I’ve been around ball players my whole life, Easton.”

  “And?” He says the word as if I’ve insulted him.

  “They’re players. They come and go on a whim. They typically need the high of the attention they get on the field to thrive. And if they can’t find it, then they’ll seek it out somewhere else . . . and that’s never good for a relationship.”

  “So you’ve had a relationship with a ballplayer, then?” His eyes narrow.

  “No. Never. It’s my personal rule.” And even though I said it myself, I know I’m already justifying in my head why I might make an exception for him.

  “It’s arrogant to brush your opinion in broad strokes across all of us players.” The dark night prevents me from seeing what else his eyes are saying.

  “True,” I muse, “but I’ve heard enough locker room talk to know the truth.”

  “So you think that’s how I am, too, then?”

  “No. Yes.” I tighten my ponytail and tuck the loosened strands behind my ears. “It’s just . . . they leave. Night after night. Day after day. Game after game. And when the season is over and the limelight is gone, they seek the attention of someone new, someone who gives them that adrenaline rush. That thrill of finding someone new, or the high that comes with the risk of being caught cheating.”

  “Scout—”

  “I’ve had enough people in my life leave me, Easton. I’m not walking willingly into a situation that sets me up for that hurt.” And I hate that I just gave him that part of me. That glimpse into my past. I blame the alcohol for lowering my guard, but I fear it’s so much more than that.

  I fear it’s because of him and how he makes me feel.

  “You’re wrong.” He steps into me and out of the street’s light. The shadows on his face give him an edge that’s sexy, reckless, and daring. “I’ve played on grass my whole life, Scout. There’s no need for me to see what’s out there when it’s green beneath my feet.”

  “There’s turf nowadays. Everything is green,” I fight back.

  “If there’s turf, then there’s no point to your argument. No one’s going to be looking for greener pastures when they’re all the same color.” He lowers his head so our eyes are on the same level, to reinforce what he’s said.

  They’re just words, Scout. Declarations that have no basis. He’s just a man trying to defend his own gender. His own ego.

  Yet, I want to believe him.

  I want to think he’s not like those guys.

  And God, how I want him to kiss me. Call my bluff. Because with the alcohol in my blood and the memory of his body against mine in my brain, it’s all I can think about.

  I spring off the wall and away from the slowly closing gap between us. “Is there a bathroom around here?” I ask the first thing that comes to mind to give me an escape, hands gesticulating animatedly, and nerves humming recklessly. “All of those drinks are catching up to me.”

  He steps forward under the light of the building and just stares at me. He can see through me right now—my nerves, my fear, my confused desire—and so I hold his gaze, pretend to be unaffected by him, and wait to see if he’s going to let me off the hook or push the issue.

  “My place is just around the corner,” he says, giving me a pass, but with a look telling me we’ll be revisiting this discussion where I called his character into question. “I’ll take you there.”

  I should say no.

  I should reject the offer and walk away from everything that he represents for me.

  But I don’t speak. Instead I fall into step next to him.

  We walk through the newly revamped downtown area, past couples holding hands and hordes of college kids making their way from one bar to the next, the night still young. Our silence only feeds my insecurity and the knowledge that he’s mad at me because I insulted his character. I know I should apologize, tell him that based on his actions today I can tell he doesn’t fit my generalization, but I don’t say a word. I can’t. Because, deep down, I have a feeling that it’s probably best if he stays mad at me.

  It’s safer.

  By the time we enter the lobby of a glossy high-rise, I really do have to use the restroom. Easton laughs at me as I dance from foot to foot during the long elevator ride to the penthouse. The doors open to the foyer of his home, where a lone lamp lights the space as he ushers me to a door to my immediate left.

  I take a few minutes after I use the facilities to check my mess of a reflection—hair falling from my ponytail, lipstick long gone, and eye shadow all collected in the crease of my lid. There’s no way I can fix this. Not here. But I try.

  I pull my ponytail out, let my dark brown hair fall, and fluff it with my fingers. And now I look like I just woke up. Shit. Is it so bad to want to look like I didn’t just wake up?

  I spend a few more minutes trying to look a bit more presentable, but when I check my reflection one last time—hair fluffed and cheeks pinched pink—I immediately grab my hair tie and pull my hair back up into a messy bun. This is how Easton knows me—in work mode—with my basic makeup and my hair thrown back. Anything else comes off like I’m trying too hard.

  And I’m not trying too hard.

  Keep telling yourself that, Scout, and maybe you’ll start believing it.

  When I exit the bathroom, Easton is nowhere to be found. Hesitant to overstep, but wondering where he is, I walk past the foyer and start making my way through the vast and still darkened condo. It’s all hardwood floors and slate grays and blues. Or I think it is from what I can see as I move through its spacious layout. I only see that much because there is a wall of windows straight ahead of me, where I’m met with Easton’s silhouette, highlighted by bright lights beyond.

  Both pull at me. Tempt me to look closer. Dare me to want what they are showing me.

  It’s a sight—his darkness against the light—and I can’t help but stare at him for a moment. Study his lines. The broad shoulders and trim waist. The wide stance and arms relaxed at his sides.

  I fool myself as I take the first step toward him, past the gourmet kitchen on the left, with its white cabinets and granite slab, that I’m just here to use the restroom.

  I lie to myself as I walk past the huge living room, with its oversize couches and state of the art electronics, that wanting him to kiss me was only a passing fancy that has come and gone.

  I push away the notion as I pad past the massive dining table, that I’ll be leaving here in a few minutes to head home and get a good night’s sleep. Alone.

  The worst part about telling yourself lies is you know the real truth.

  And the truth is I want everything I just tried to convince myself I didn’t.

  The r
ealization echoes in my head as I prepare myself for his irrevocable pull, because it’s pointless to pretend he doesn’t affect me when my body is already humming at the sight of his silhouette.

  “Your place is gorgeous. The only thing missing is a scruffy . . .” My words trail off before I can say mutt to snuggle up with, because when I step beside him, I’m rendered speechless by the sight before us—the source of the bright lights beyond.

  “Wow.” It’s all I can say, and I sound like a little kid seeing Santa Claus for the first time—astonished. Mesmerized. Staggered. “You’re forgiven for not having a mutt,” I murmur, my words barely audible as I stare.

  “A mutt?”

  “Shush and let me enjoy the view.” I swat at him to reinforce my words, transfixed by a sight that’s as beautiful to my eye as the man standing beside me.

  Like mouth-dropping, chill-inducing incredible.

  Beyond this wall of windows high above the city, the buildings dotting the darkened skyline paint a uniquely beautiful picture, but they’re nothing compared to what lies directly below us: the home of the Austin Aces.

  The lights are on, bringing the ballpark to life despite the fifty thousand vacant seats. They highlight the brilliant green of the outfield grass and its mesmerizing mowed crisscross pattern. They brighten the brown of the infield’s dirt, the white of the chalk lines, and the blue uniforms of the grounds crew who seem to be working on the pitcher’s mound.

  He chuckles and pulls me from my trance. “I’m glad I’m forgiven when I wasn’t even aware you liked dogs.”

  “Mutts. I prefer mutts. Preferably the no-one-else-wants-them kind of mutts. And I want one desperately, but with traveling for work and . . . just wow . . .” I’m rambling because my attention is engrossed elsewhere.

  And for the first time tonight, it’s not on him.

  “I know.”

  I appreciate the fact that he doesn’t say anything else. That he just allows me to appreciate the view before us—the only diamond this girl has ever dreamt of. And right now I’d challenge anyone who told me this diamond doesn’t sparkle as brightly as the rock you wear on your finger. With empty seats or with a sold-out crowd, this one outshines jewelry any day.

  “It’s your church,” I whisper, not even certain I say it out loud until I glance over to Easton and find him watching me. There’s a look on his face. His expression is part awe, part disbelief, and a whole lot of little boy mixed together, and it steals my heart when I had it firmly protected under lock and key.

  But he’s stolen it nonetheless.

  “This is the place, isn’t it?” I murmur like he should know what I’m referring to—the fabled house I’ve heard some players talk about, with its sparkling views and the private field in its depths, twenty-something floors below. And because I’ve never heard them say who owns the place, I thought it was a legend of sorts, a fantasy home some players aspire to have, and yet here it is.

  And, of course, it’s Easton’s.

  “It is.” He nods his head, eyes intense, and I can’t figure out which thing I want to look at more: the field or him.

  “Is it true?”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “There’s really a personal batting cage and mini-field beneath the building that came with your place?”

  “There is.” He nods again, but his eyes say so much more. I’m drawn to look closer but am afraid of what I might see because deep down I already know it might be something I won’t be able to walk away from.

  “Why would you need that when you have this in your backyard? Your office?”

  He shrugs and diverts his eyes back to the stadium. It’s almost as if he’s embarrassed or uncertain of his answer. “Because that view, right there . . . the power of it, the strength I draw from it when I’m having that kind of game where you can feel the humming in your bones that tells you something indescribable is about to happen? This is the only place I get to have that alone. The only place where I can quiet my head and listen to what the humming is telling me without the fans or the front office or my teammates or the media watching me home in on it.” He scrubs a hand through his hair and snorts. “Never mind. That just sounded completely ridiculous.”

  “Not in the least.” I stare at him until my silence urges him to face me, meet my eyes, and see that I’m nowhere close to laughing at him. “Please. Finish what you were going to say.”

  “I don’t know. I guess some nights I like to sit here when the lights are out, with this ghost of a stadium below me, and go to church, if you will. Think about my game.” His exhale is audible and his discomfort with being so open is suddenly palpable.

  “See? I knew you loved to talk about your stats.”

  “You and your statistics.” He laughs with a shake of his head, but his discomfort is gone and his smile is genuine when he glances my way. “When they were building the new stadium, some eccentric billionaire bought this place while the building was still under construction. He was obsessed with the game and paid some stupid amount of money to build the field in the basement. The place went up for sale a few years back, and I bought it. How could I not? But I’ve tried to keep that it’s mine on the down low. It’s the one place I have that’s truly mine, that’s completely private and removed from everything that comes with this game.”

  “It’s perfect.”

  “You haven’t even seen the place with the lights on,” he teases.

  “These are all the lights this girl needs to know it’s a perfect fit for you,” I say, motioning to the ballpark’s towers.

  “Sometimes I’ll just stand here like this after a brutal game or bad home stand, staring, thinking, and I’ll suddenly get inspired to go work on what I did wrong. Sometimes I’ll gear up, other times I’ll head down in my pajama pants, and I’ll work on it until I can’t see straight and the clock reads four in the morning.”

  I shouldn’t be surprised by his dedication, and yet I find it so refreshing to know he actually has to work at something, when he seems to be such a damn natural at everything.

  “Plus, I’m super competitive so it’s nice to be able to put in the extra time without anyone else knowing. Never underestimate the element of surprise.”

  “Never,” I murmur. “And there’s never a rain delay, either.”

  “Lately, I feel like there’s been a permanent rain delay on my career.” His chuckle transitions to a heavy sigh. The resignation in it tempts me to ask him more about the toll this has taken on him, but I’m startled from the thought when, without a word, he reaches over and hooks my pinky with his.

  And just like I found comfort in the touch of his hand earlier, I wonder if maybe he needs the same from me right now. So I don’t interrupt the moment. Instead we settle into the silence, touching and watching and trying to figure out what we are doing here.

  “I’m doing my best to get you back out there,” I say after a bit, letting him know I heard the frustration and defeat in his previous statement. His permanent rain delay.

  “Is that the polite way to say you’re busting my ass?”

  And within seconds, we go from serious to playful, and I love that it’s so easy to do with him.

  “You ain’t seen nothing yet, Wylder.”

  “Oh really?” He tugs on my pinky so that I’m forced to face him. “You’ve got more moves up your sleeve, Dalton?”

  My smile is automatic when our eyes meet. The slow, sweet ache of want is, too. How can it not be when we’re standing in the dark, he’s framed by a halo of baseball stadium light, and that electric charge between us is snapping with an unfathomable current from just our pinkies touching?

  There’s something about Easton that makes me want when I shouldn’t, need when I needn’t, and desire when I know it’ll be disastrous.

  But damn the fallout to hell, because more than anything, I want to feel right now. Alive. Wanted. Desired. Like a woman.

  Is that such a bad thing?

  I’m sure it’s not. I’m sure
it’s normal for most women, but not for me.

  And not like this.

  “I’ll show you what’s up my sleeve if you show me your secret baseball fort downstairs.”

  His laughter echoes off the glass beside us and back to my ears a second time. “Aha! So that’s what it takes to impress you.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “My big bat doesn’t do it for you, but my home plate downstairs does?” He shakes his head, but when our eyes meet, his laugh fades as the air between us shifts and charges with an unmistakable energy.

  “Scout.” All he says is my name, but in its timbre I hear so many things that I can’t comprehend over my head shouting that I need to step back.

  I step toward him.

  Time feels like it stops.

  His gasp is soft but audible.

  Then starts again in slow motion.

  A soft squeeze of his pinky around mine.

  Then slams into fast forward.

  Within a heartbeat, exactly what I both wanted and feared happens: his lips are on mine. The kiss is slow and breathtaking, with soft lips and gentle tongues and murmured sighs and guiding fingertips.

  This is wrong, Scout. So wrong. But how can it be wrong when it feels like this and tastes like him?

  “Easton.” I tell myself to step back. To resist. To not want to kiss him.

  And then our tongues meet again in a soft dance of sighs and need.

  “I think we should go check out—”

  His lips smother the words on mine.

  “—your field—”

  He nips my bottom lip.

  “—your bases—”

  His tongue taunts again.

  “—your—”

  “Will you shut up, please?” He laughs against my lips. “You’ve been fighting this kiss all day long, and I practiced restraint like you told me to do . . . but right now? Right now, I’m going to kiss you senseless, Scout, and I want to fucking enjoy it. So, for the love of God, woman, use those lips of yours on me and not on words.”

  His sexy-as-hell reprimand evokes a flood of emotions within me, and yet there’s only one of them I can name: want.