Squeeze Play (Washington DC Soaring Eagles Book 1)

by Aven Ellis

  I tilt my head to the side, praying my Spanx bodysuit is doing its magic and giving my skirt a sleeker side view. Hmm. I think it is. I turn to the other side. Okay, that’s good, too, and finally, I give a little look over my shoulder to see if my butt looks lifted. Yes, it does.

  I glance into the coffeehouse, and I nearly shriek in horror.

  Brody is sitting at the table right in front of the window.

  Watching me study my butt in the reflection.

  With a huge grin on his face.

  ARGH! Shit! Dammit!

  I freeze. I don’t know what to do. Run away? Smile? What? What do I do?

  Brody waves at me.

  GAH.

  Dying would be preferable now.

  He motions for me to come in.

  Oy.

  I swallow hard, knowing my face is once again about to go full-on beet purple red, and make my way into the coffeehouse.

  I step inside, greeted by peppy acoustic guitar music and the rich scent of brewed espresso. I head over to Brody’s table and drink him in, from his black cashmere sweater with the sleeves pushed up, to the intricate tattoo sleeve that goes down to his wrist. I notice veins running through his forearms, which is incredibly hot. I shift my gaze up to his handsome face. His pale-blue eyes are locked on me, and my breath catches the second I see that they are.

  He’s about to speak, but I cut him off.

  “For the record, I was making sure I had no visible panty lines,” I lie.

  Brody slowly lifts an eyebrow, and I know I’m going purple.

  “I didn’t see any,” he says in that wonderful, unique raspy voice.

  “You looked?” I blurt out.

  “No, which is why I didn’t see any,” he says easily.

  I can’t help it. I begin laughing at myself, and he grins at me.

  “Did you want me to check for panty lines? I’d be happy to oblige.”

  “No,” I say, sitting down in the chair across from him. “I feel confident I’m fine, but thank you for the most considerate offer.”

  Confident. Ha-ha, that is the biggest lie ever because I’m so nervous I might start non-stop talking in an effort to try and calm myself.

  Which would be a disaster of epic proportions.

  Instead, I reach into my Modalu Pippa dusky-pink bag and retrieve a small plastic container. I place it in between us on the table.

  “That is one capful of laundry detergent,” I say.

  Brody stares down at it, then lifts his eyes to meet mine, and I see they are studying me with a mixture of surprise and amusement.

  “You seriously brought me laundry detergent?”

  “You seriously asked for some in your email.”

  Brody begins laughing. “Well, thank you, Hayley.”

  My heart flutters when he says my name.

  “You’re welcome, Brody,” I say, loving the way his name sounds off my lips. Then I decide to lay some cards out on the table. “So, does the team do your laundry or do you wash your own uniforms? Because yours got pretty dirty last night.”

  “Ah, you know who I am.”

  “My roommate had the game on last night,” I say, slowly laying down another card.

  Brody grins at me. “But weren’t you too busy giving yourself a manicure in hot sauce to watch a baseball game?”

  I cringe. He laughs.

  “So, did you Google me?” Brody asks, cocking an eyebrow up.

  Hmm. I’m not sure I’m willing to lay that card of admission out just yet.

  “Maybe. Did you Google me?” I counter.

  I pause on that thought. I’ve never Googled myself; the thought of what I would find would be terrifying. Dumb college guys saying I’m stuck up because I refused to give out my number or let them buy me drinks when I had zero interest? That I was cold? People saying I talk too much? Mean girl shit, like I need to walk away from the dessert buffet and eat more salads?

  I wonder what Brody found.

  “I hope you didn’t Google me,” I blurt out. “Because I don’t believe that is an accurate picture of who I am.”

  “How so?” Brody asks.

  “I’ve never Googled myself, so I can’t tell you, but I’m guessing it’s not all flattering. People online are mean. I go online to keep up with my friends, read the news, do research, and fun stuff, like Amazon shopping or blog reading. I don’t go online to be nasty and rip other people apart for my entertainment. I used to be in this book group for a chick lit author on Facebook. It was for fun, or so I thought, and then people would get nasty on threads talking about books! No. I don’t have time for that crap.”

  “People hide behind keyboards,” Brody says. “But I am amazed it can get nasty in the chick lit book world.”

  He rubs the golden scruff on his jawline for a moment, and I notice his fingernail polish is gone.

  “What happened to your yellow nails?” I ask, changing subjects.

  “What?”

  “You had on yellow nail polish last night. I saw it on your fingertips.”

  Brody furrows his brow. Then the biggest grin spreads across his face, one that reveals the dimple in his cheek.

  “That wasn’t nail polish,” he says, smiling. “Those are stickers so the pitcher can see my hands.”

  “Oh,” I say. Then I begin laughing. “Well, if it was nail polish, I was going to recommend a beautiful bright coral.”

  “I’ll make a note of that,” Brody says, the beautiful smile still on his face.

  I realize nothing I say trips him up. Brody seamlessly moves with me, following the conversation wherever I take it.

  “Do you realize I haven’t even sat down for five minutes and we’ve already talked about panty lines, laundry soap, and nail polish?”

  “You make it sound so unusual,” Brody deadpans.

  “I can’t imagine you having conversations like this with other women.”

  “That’s exactly why I’m sitting here. You say whatever is in your head, and so far, that’s been interesting. Now what can I get you to drink?”

  Brody thinks I’m interesting.

  I’m giddy from the compliment, because he’s noticing my mind.

  “A tea would be lovely,” I say, remembering the disgusting iced coffee from yesterday. “Earl Grey, please, with a raw sugar.”

  “You got it,” Brody says, pushing his chair back and standing up.

  “Thank you,” I say, smiling at him.

  “You’re welcome,” Brody says. Then his face turns serious. “Have you ever wondered who Earl Grey was? And why he has a tea named after him?”

  He turns to get in line, and I know I’m staring at him open-mouthed.

  His brain works like mine, I think in amazement.

  Suddenly, today’s workbook question comes to the forefront of my mind:

  What truly makes you happy?

  I mentally write the answer in my head.

  Getting to know Brody Jensen.

  And that’s exactly what I’m going to continue to do as soon as he gets back to this table.

  Chapter Six

  “One Earl Grey tea with raw sugar,” Brody says, placing the cup in front of me.

  I smile up at him. “Thank you. While you were gone, I solved the mystery of Mr. Earl Grey.”

  He sits back down across from me, his expression serious. He places his elbows on the table and steeples his fingertips to his lips.

  “You have my complete attention,” he says. “Proceed with the intelligence you have acquired.”

  Forget Earl Grey. Brody is freaking hot, looking all serious and intellectual at the moment.

  I lean forward to reveal my information. “The tea is named after Mr. Earl Charles Grey, the Prime Minister of England from 1830 to 1834.”

  “Fascinating.”

  “Quite. The tea is known for its citrus taste, which is the result of adding bergamot oil to it.”

  “Go on.”

  “The bergamot blends perfectly with the strong, bold, m
altiness of the black tea,” I say, pausing to lift my cup. I inhale the hot brew, detecting the fragrances I just read about on a tea website. I extend the cup toward Brody. “Close your eyes and inhale the tea.”

  “What?” Brody asks, appearing surprised.

  “Do it,” I encourage.

  Brody grins but complies. He dips his head forward and closes his eyes, slowly inhaling the scent of the hot tea in front of him.

  This shouldn’t be a sexy experience, but it is. There’s something about watching this gorgeous man close his eyes and breathe in the drink that is a huge turn-on to me.

  I refocus before he opens his eyes and catches me staring at him.

  “You should be detecting the rich, dark tea, floral scents, and the brightness of citrus, all coming together for a lush, aromatic experience.”

  Brody slowly opens his eyes. “I detected something else.”

  “Really? What?” I ask, curious. “Those were the things mentioned on the Earl Grey website I pulled up.”

  “I smelled fresh-cut flowers and spice, mixed together,” Brody says. He reaches across the table and gently brushes his thumb across the inside of my wrist, and I shiver as soon as I feel the roughness of his skin move against mine. “Your perfume is what I noticed.”

  I can’t breathe.

  “Jo Malone,” I manage to get out. “Mimosa and Cardamom.”

  “It smells good,” Brody says softly, removing his hand from my wrist. “It’s beautiful.”

  I stare back at him, amazed at the butterflies dancing in my stomach, the ones that took off the second he touched me.

  I’ve never felt this way before.

  I like it.

  “Thank you,” I say.

  “You’re welcome.” Then Brody clears his throat. “Is Earl Grey your favorite tea?”

  I feel my face warm. “Actually, it’s the first time I’ve had it,” I confess.

  “Really?”

  I pause and take a sip of it. Mmm. It’s good, definitely an improvement over the cold coffee of yesterday, but it still needs something.

  “Is it good?” Brody asks.

  “Much better than the coffee I dumped yesterday,” I say. “I think I need to try it with a squeeze of lemon. That’s what the website suggested.”

  “What do you normally drink?”

  I cringe. “If I tell you, I’ll sound like I’m the thirteen-year-old whose mom dropped her off at a coffeehouse to hang out with her friends that do nothing but read their phones the whole time.”

  Brody laughs. “What?”

  “I love frozen coffee drinks,” I say, staring wistfully at the menu. “Mochas. Cookie mochas, mint mochas, a combo of all three . . . But I read this article about how bad they are for you, with all the sugar and calories, so I realized it’s a problem, especially because I love a late night bowl of sugary cereal for a snack. I have to start cutting the junk out somewhere, so Earl Grey might be a way to solve my problem.”

  I realize what we are talking about and I groan.

  “Missing the mocha?” Brody asks.

  “Brody, you agree to meet me here at seven thirty in the morning and all I’ve done is talk about tea. I’m so sorry.”

  “What if I like talking about tea?” Brody challenges.

  “Right.”

  “Hayley, I’m a grown-ass man. If I didn’t want to talk about tea, I have options, like changing the subject or saying, ‘Oh, look at the time. Gotta go to practice.’”

  “You have practice this early?” I ask, confused.

  Brody grins wickedly at me. “No, I don’t go to the ballpark until two in the afternoon. But see? I could lie to you, since you don’t know baseball, and easily leave if I wanted to. But I don’t.”

  My heart skips with his words. “So . . . you don’t mind talking about tea?”

  “Not with you.”

  Ooh!

  “But I’m going to have to go to work, and our time is limited, so shouldn’t this be a getting-to-know-you conversation?” I ask.

  “I thought we were doing that. I know you really like sugar. You hate iced coffee. You’re still trying to figure out the Earl Grey thing. You wear a perfume called Mimosa and Cardamom on your wrist. Now I need to know what cereal you eat.”

  “I’m not learning as much about you,” I challenge.

  “I drink lattes. I’ve never had Earl Grey tea. My cologne is Terre D’ Hermès by Hermès. My favorite cereal is Rice Krispies. It can be plain, Frosted Krispies, or Cocoa Krispies, all of those are good, but by far the best bowl of cereal is Rice Krispies Treats cereal. I can eat a whole box of that by myself.”

  My pulse leaps as I take in his responses.

  He wears Hermès.

  He loves Rice Krispies Treats cereal.

  And if he is wearing that lush cedar and citrus cologne on his neck while eating a bowl of Rice Krispies Treats cereal, I’m done for.

  “Question,” Brody asks. “Do you drink the milk at the bottom of the bowl?”

  He wants to have a legitimate conversation about cereal.

  This has to be a sign.

  “Of course! That is liquid gold! Cereal milk is delicious.”

  “I agree,” Brody says, his face breaking out into a grin. Once again, that super cute dimple pops out. “Have you ever had a cereal milk cocktail?”

  “What? No! Why have I been denied such pleasure?” I cry.

  “They are fantastic. I had one wi—”

  Suddenly, my phone starts blaring the Mary Tyler Moore Show theme.

  “Hold on,” I say, quickly retrieving my phone out of my purse.

  “What song is that?” Brody asks.

  “The Mary Tyler Moore Show theme song,” I explain. “I’m using Mary as my inspiration for becoming a professional woman. That sound was my alarm telling me I need to leave here to walk to work.”

  Which I don’t want to do, I think.

  “I’ll walk you,” Brody says.

  Happiness fills me. “Okay.”

  We leave the coffeehouse and I direct Brody toward my office. I notice some people staring at him as we walk, which is weird to me. It must be odd to be watched wherever you go. I’ll have to ask him about it later.

  “So, what is your go-to cereal?” Brody asks, interrupting my thoughts.

  “I love so many, that’s a hard question. I love Boo Berry, but you can only get that around Halloween. I love the fruity ones: Fruity Pebbles, Trix, and Fruit Loops.”

  “I like Fruity Pebbles the best out of those,” Brody says.

  I stop walking, and Brody stops next to me.

  “What?” he asks.

  “I can’t believe you want to have a conversation about cereal,” I say, staring up at him and thinking how unusual this is, as no guy my age has ever engaged me on one of my favorite topics. “This can’t be normal for you.”

  “No, it’s not, which is why I’m enjoying it.”

  I can’t stop the ridiculous smile spreading across my face. “Me, too.”

  We walk a little bit further, interrupted once by a fan who wanted a selfie with Brody, before we reach my office.

  “This is where I work. Day two at the Expanded World to the Shelf, which I call Expanded World for short,” I explain. “A non-profit foundation to help people with dyslexia. I hope my work here will make a difference someday, but for now, I’m still trying to navigate the office and figure out what my place is.”

  “Your place,” Brody says, “will be where you make it. I don’t see you sitting by quietly and collecting a paycheck every week. You’ll make a difference.”

  I feel my cheeks grow warm from his words. “Thank you.”

  “Did you enter my number into your phone last night?” he asks.

  “No,” I admit. “I knew I could access my email if I needed to get it.”

  “May I see your phone?”

  My pulse careens from his request. I fish it out of my bag and hand it to him, and I nearly squeal out loud when I watch him enter his phone
number. Brody hands the phone back to me.

  “Yesterday, you told me you were a woman who takes matters into her own hands,” he says, his eyes dancing at me. “If you care to update me as to how your day is going, you can, you know, if destiny calls you to do so.”

  “I see,” I say calmly. “May I see your phone, Brody?”

  Brody smiles at me and hands me his, and I key in my name and number.

  “If you are inclined to ask me how my day was or what cereal I’m eating tonight while watching a certain baseball game, you can. If destiny calls you to do so.”

  I hand it back to him.

  “You are going to fight through another boring baseball game? Should I be flattered, Ms. Carter?”

  “Very much so, Mr. Jensen,” I say. Then I sigh. “I’ve got to go to work.”

  “Thank you for the laundry detergent,” Brody says, holding the container up.

  I laugh. “Thank you for the Earl Grey.”

  We stand on the street, and Brody reaches up and runs his hand through his dirty-blond hair, moving it out of place.

  “I’ll check on you later,” he finally says, his raspy voice soft, “before I leave for the ballpark.”

  “I’d like that.”

  “Have a good day,” Brody says.

  We’re standing close together, and I can smell that sexy cologne lingering on his tanned skin. Oh, he smells divine.

  I get an image of us cuddled up on the couch, eating cereal, and joking and laughing. I would be wrapped up in his tanned arm and his cedar and citrus scent would envelop me. Then Brody would drop a sweet kiss on my lips, one that tasted like cereal, and I’d feel the scruff of his beard scratch against my face.

  Oh, my.

  HashtagBrodygoals

  I need to get myself together or I’ll lose my job because I decided to stand here and fantasize about kissing Brody instead of going to work.

  “Um . . . Bye,” I say abruptly.

  He laughs. “Bye, Hayley.”