21. HOPE
CHAPTER 21
HOPE
S tarr has been acting weird. It’s not that he’s normally a chatterbox or anything—he leans to the quiet side and when he talks, it’s to tease with that Texas drawl of his. But there hasn’t been much teasing this afternoon. In fact, except for when I tried on the dresses, he’s barely even looked my way.
It’s almost as if he’s nervous.
And okay, I’m a girl. I have hormones. Sometimes they addle my brain. I blame them for planting the seed of thought in my mind that maybe his weird behavior could be because he’s my blind date. He’s kind of dressed for it, too.
I stretch the fabric of my new dress lower down my thighs. A country singer crones about some long lost love as Starr drives me to the restaurant where the date will be. After having bought me a dress, shoes, a little purse for my phone and keys, and even hiring a stylist to come into a clothing store that he rented out for an hour. For me.
That’s… that’s… I don’t think my hormones can be blamed on this.
I glance at him from the corner of my eye. The stoplight is red and he drums the steering wheel with his thumb. His left hand rubs his chin, deep set blue eyes trained firmly on the car in front of us. A muscle in his jaw ticks, like whatever he’s so lost in thought about is annoying.
Mierda.
This man is gorgeous.
Yeah, yeah, I knew that. He didn’t go viral last month because of the words he said, but because he has an accent and a face that weakens knees. And his body too. I’ve seen him in various states of dress or undress over the years, regularly ice him, help him relieve cramps, and oversee his workouts. It lands very different to see all that when he’s wearing his uniform or his training clothes. That’s always felt like work.
But earlier today, with his shirt unbuttoned showing all that golden skin, taught with ripples of muscle and a smattering of light brown hair? And his forearm muscles flexing as he rolled up his sleeves? That hit different. Like a scene straight from his bedroom.
What if my date is Cade Starr?
I tuck my hair behind my ears and they feel much warmer than usual.
I can’t possibly go out with him. First, he’s already seen me at my most unhinged. If I’m not attractive to guys on my baseline setting, I’m downright repellant at my most intense. Second, dating anyone in the team would be like crapping where I eat. If something goes wrong, I’ll be the one whose ass lands in the street.
Third, which by itself is as weighty as the first two points combined: the last thing I want is a pity date. And that’s what he’d be offering, just like when Lucky Rivera immediately asked me out when he found out that I was desperate to find a guy. Starr has never shown any kind of interest for me in that sense anyway, which is how I’d know it’s out of pity.
Well, until today. This whole afternoon has been some real boyfriend shit. Or better, I guess, because my ex never treated me this nicely.
The truck stops moving and I look up from my hands. Starr speaks for the first time in at least half an hour. “Here we are. When you go in, ask for a reservation under your name.”
“Um.” I swallow. “My name or last name?”
He turns to me. “Hope.”
I hope—pun intended—that he doesn’t notice how my breath hitches.
“Okay.” I unfasten my seatbelt and pretend to be way busier with that than I really am. Casually, I ask, “Aren’t you coming too?”
“In a bit.” He offers no further explanation.
And I don’t know what else to say either. Thanking him for all the pampering right now would be weird if he ends up sitting across from me at the same table. I’m just going to play along.
Opening the door, I slide off his truck and he takes out his phone, ignoring me altogether. I close the door and round the truck to the front door of the restaurant. He still doesn’t follow.
“Welcome,” a young hostess says with a million dollar smile. “Do you have a reservation?”
“Yes, under the name Hope.” My mind, ever so helpful, replays the voice of a certain cowboy uttering my name from his lips. My skin, ever so unhelpful, breaks into goosebumps all over.
“Right. Follow me.”
I just figured out why these tiny purses are called clutches because I clutch mine for dear life as I follow her. The restaurant has some busy tables, so at least he didn’t rent the whole thing this time. But it’s still spacious enough that it screams money. The lighting fixtures are low over the tables, so that only the customers and their food are plainly visible. The rest of the decor is dark, intimate, walls made of glass with gentle cascades of water trickling down the sleek surfaces. Even a Coke here must cost a fortune.
She guides me through the place almost to the back, close to the bar, and when she steps aside it’s to reveal my table.
It’s not empty, though, like it would’ve been if Starr was trying to be all mysterious. Rather, there’s a man already waiting.
And it’s none other than Logan Kim.
My jaw drops so bad that the hostess has to clear her throat not to laugh.
Meanwhile, Kim gets up to pull out a chair meant for me. When it’s clear that I’m incapable of any coherent thought, he motions at the chair with his head, his thick black hair coming loose from the hold behind his ear and falling to half obscure his face.
“Oh. Um.” I scramble to take a seat and he pushes me gently toward the table.
I cast a confused expression at the hostess, but rather than offer any explanations she just takes her leave.
Kim retraces his steps, one hand sliding down his stomach to hold his tie in place as he sits back down. He hasn’t even settled down when I blurt out, “What’s happening?”
“I’m your date,” he responds with his deep, smooth voice, dark eyes twinkling under the low light.
My hands are clutching at my little purse so tight that they tremble. I try to swallow but my mouth is dry as a desert. ?Qué carajo me pasa? Why is my stomach in knots?
Water. That’s all I need. I force my hands to relax and reach for the pitcher and my fancy little glass. Kim leans back, a tiny smile on his face as he watches me drain my glass like it’s alcohol and I’m trying to get smashed as quickly as possible.
Ha, maybe I should order a stiffer little beverage.
“Wow, I’m speechless,” I say, which kind of defeats the concept of being speechless, except there’s nothing else that comes to mind. I can’t even comprehend all that I’m feeling myself.
“How come? Were you expecting someone else?”
Yes.
No. I shouldn’t have.
But I was.
“Um.” I tuck my hair behind my ears again and mumble, “I was just expecting a complete stranger.” That’s not entirely a lie. It really was what I thought up until this afternoon.
“Is this better or worse?”
“To be honest, I’m not sure,” I admit, which elicits a chuckle out of him. It has the curious effect of relaxing my muscles, and I finally settle into the chair. “We already know each other, and for example I know you’d never treat me like crap.”
“Props to me.” Kim grins.
“But on the other hand, you’ve also already seen me acting like a headless chicken, so I can’t imagine you’re sitting here with any real interest in me.”
His thick eyebrows rise. “Who says that?”
I blow a raspberry. “Please, I’ve seen the women you’ve dated.”
“C’mon, only one was a supermodel.”
“Kim.” I give him a look trying to go for stern, but I actually want to laugh.
“Call me Logan.” He shrugs. “We’re on a date after all.”
“Logan.” His name rolls off my tongue easily, even though it’s the first time I use it. I spread my hands on the table. “Can we be fully honest here?”
“Always.”
I appreciate the earnestness of his answer and it makes me smile. “We both know there is nothing that will come out of this date.”
“Ouch.” He places both paws over his heart. “This is the fastest I’ve ever been rejected.”
“It’s not that I’m rejecting you. If circumstances were different I’d be going wild over you.”
Humming from his throat, he leans closer, elbows on the table. “What circumstances?”
Of course he has a big ego. I know that. The entire team and staff know that. Fans know that. Logan has exceptionally amazing genes because he comes from one of the most famous baseball families. His dad is none other than Jeong Guk Kim, the first South Korean to be inducted into the American baseball hall of fame. His brother is Lewis Kim, an All-Star pitcher who breaks records every season. And his mother is Freya Backstrom, a Swedish supermodel famous for her ethereal beauty. Logan has as much beauty as he has skill, and is brimming with sex appeal. I literally don’t know a single woman who is immune to him. Some men too.
But… “We’re basically coworkers,” I say and when it still doesn’t seem to click with him, I add, “Dating coworkers is a historically bad idea for women, and I’d really like to keep my job. I have big student loans to pay off.”
“Ah.” He runs his hand through his hair, not messing it one bit. “So you refuse to date anyone in the Wild organization?”
“Yeah.” I make a grab for my glass but it’s empty. Before I can react, he reaches forward to refill it.
“So just to clarify, even if it’s not me, you also won’t date anyone else in the team?”
“Right.”
“Hmm.” He leans back on his chair and takes a moment to study me while I wash the rest of my nerves down with water. Finally, he asks, “Would you like to continue with the date anyway? I’d love to treat you.”
I lift my chin. “Yes, please. I would love free fancy food.” And my stomach roars in affirmation.
*
Logan and I walk out of the restaurant together, laughing easily about some prank the third baseman played on Lucky Rivera a few days ago in the locker room.
“I swear, I’ve never seen Rivera squeal so much,” Logan says, shoulders still shaking with mirth.
“Oh my word, I’d have paid to see that.” I wipe a tear off my eye. Unfortunately, that makes my eye sting somehow. “Ouch!” I stop walking and squeeze my eyes tight, but that makes it worse.
The amusement fades from Logan’s voice. “What happened?”
“I think an eyelash went into my eye.”
“Let me see.”
I stand still and struggle to open my eyes. Two warm hands hold my head firmly and Logan looms closer than ever before. He searches my eyes—er, the one eye—intently, and in a parallel universe I’d wonder if he was going to kiss me.
Instead, he says, “Found it. It’s actually not in all the way so I think I can get it. Can you keep your eye open?”
“I’ll try.” I grit my teeth and force myself not to move a millimeter as he leans much closer. One of his hands releases my head, the other one sliding to the back, through my hair to hold me in place. Carefully, his fingers grow impossibly large as they approach my eye and suddenly—sweet relief. “Oh, thank you.”
He steps back and lifts the evil eyelash resting on the pad of his index finger to me. “Blow it for good luck.”
I do and rub my eye. A second too late I remember the makeup.
“Oh, shit,” I say in a truly unladylike way. “Did I just smear my makeup all over?”
“Nah, you’re still pristine.”
Not that it matters, but I still sigh in relief. “Okay, good.”
He takes another step back and puts a hand in the pocket of his dress pants. “So, should I take you home or is someone else driving you?”
We both know who the someone else is. I glance over my shoulder, but Cade Starr doesn’t jump out of the restaurant, ready to be my chauffeur again. Maybe he’s not even here anymore, knowing that I’d be in great hands this time around.
“Actually, I didn’t arrange a ride back. Can you please just drive me to where my car is parked?”
“Sure thing. After you.” He motions in the general direction to his left and I fall in step.
I’ve never really paid attention to what he drives, but he stops by a fancy ass car I recognize as a Maserati, though I couldn’t begin to guess which model or price tag. I don’t know why it surprises me because Logan Kim is a flashy kind of guy, but it’s like I half expected him to drive another pickup.
The car is so annoyingly low and my dress so tight, that I end up having to accept his help to slide into the seat, butt first, and then turn to tuck my legs in. Logan closes the door like an old school gentleman and the passenger seat absorbs me while he makes his way to the driver’s seat.
“Whoa, dude. This is way fancy,” I say once he climbs in.
He flashes a quick grin in the night. “Right? Makes me feel like I’ve finally made it.”
As we strap in, I ask, “You needed a car to realize that, Mr. Highest Pedigree in the Land?”
“Yes, actually.” There’s a twist on his lips that is more sardonic than amused, but then him turning on the car distracts me because the engine sounds like a beast from the jungle, and off we go.
You’d think he’d have a need for speed while driving a machine like this, but Logan drives calmly through the streets, keeping the easy conversation flowing over some chill music that plays from his sound system. He delivers me to the pharmacy parking lot where my Jeep awaits, opening his car door for me again, helping me get out, and waiting until I’m safely driving away in my modest vehicle.
From the rearview mirror, I see his fancy ride take a left where I keep going straight. Finally, I feel alone enough that I can free myself.
My chest twists painfully and as if on cue, my eyes prickle with hot tears.
This was the best damn date I’ve ever been to. No one has been kinder or safer than Logan Kim, and I bet this is why Starr arranged it. Regardless of whether he thought this could turn into the real deal, the cowboy definitely knew I needed to experience something like this. Because he’s learned enough about me to figure out that I’m starved for this—for a kind guy who treats me with respect.
And yet he’s not the one who showed up.
I dab furiously at the tears trickling down my face, sure that my makeup is really getting messed up now.
It doesn’t matter though—none of this does. If Cade Starr had been my date, the conditions would still be the same. He’s still my coworker and therefore out of bounds. It still would’ve been a pity date to show me what a nice date would be like. He’s obviously not interested in me, and the proof is that he sent Logan instead.
A sob tears from my throat. Unfortunately, that doesn’t mean I’m not interested in him.