24. Savannah
twenty-four
Savannah
A vision of Nico and his piercing gray eyes haunts me as I lie on the chaise lounge. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about him and his sexy smirk since he left me speechless standing at my door early this morning.
“I don’t care.” His words replay in my head, sending butterflies swirling in my stomach.
If only it were that easy. While my brain has been concocting scenarios where being with Nico has no consequences, I know better.
My fantasy is better than my reality.
Dating your sister’s ex-boyfriend isn’t exactly socially acceptable. This whole scenario is a disaster waiting to happen.
Look at what happened to Brenda and Kelly when Dylan got involved? Those two were just best friends, and a boy destroyed their relationship.
Charlotte is my sister. The person I love most in this world.
The last thing I would ever want to do is hurt her, and being with Nico would hurt her.
It would be wrong of me to put Charlotte’s feelings aside just to be with a man who could turn around and change his mind later.
His feelings for me could be lust and nothing more.
Or his feelings could be real. Would that be so wrong?
“Shut up, stupid brain.” I groan to myself and roll over onto my stomach.
I keep telling myself it would be wrong to be with Nico, but deep down, a part of me thinks not dipping my toes in the Nico Romero waters is the real wrong choice.
No matter how hard I fight the attraction I have for him, there’s something there that I can’t shake. I felt it when he kissed me.
Ugh. That kiss.
Those pesky butterfly wings flutter in my stomach again at the memory. Kissing Nico rocked my freaking world. Everything about that kiss felt right.
I can vividly recall the heat in Nico’s gray eyes as he stepped closer.
The shine on his pouty pink lips as he swiped his tongue across them.
The feel of his muscles beneath my hands as I fisted his shirt.
The scent of his skin as it surrounded me.
The lushness of his lips as they molded to mine.
The spark that turned into a roaring fire in my veins as he pushed me up against the wall and kissed the ever-loving hell out of me.
The sound of my phone chirping from the table beside my chaise has my eyelids fluttering open. Since I couldn’t sleep and the weather was perfect for catching some sun, I’ve been laid out here on my balcony, letting my brain do its thing.
I roll onto my back and swipe open the message from an unknown number.
Unknown: It’s cold as fuck in St. Louis.
Nico.
How on earth did he get my number?
My stomach twirls, and my face splits into a grin as I reread his message.
I save his contact information, and I can’t help chuckling as I type in the nickname.
I have a full-on out-of-body experience as I watch myself snap a picture of my legs and feet, with the view of the balcony behind, and tap send.
“Dammit,” I groan. I shouldn’t encourage him.
Before I can mentally slap myself, three dots appear, and a new text follows soon after.
Baseball Boy: Fuck me. Those have got to be the sexiest legs I’ve ever seen. Please tell me you know who you’re talking to.
Alone on my balcony, I giggle at my phone like a teen with a crush. This isn’t like me. I do not giggle over text messages from boys. I’m a badass doctor. I don’t do this. And yet? I can’t help embracing the feeling and teasing Nico.
Stephen from the hospital?
Baseball Boy: Who the fuck is Stephen?
LOL. Relax, baseball boy. I’m kidding. I know it’s you.
Baseball Boy: I swear, Savannah. One day…
What does … mean?
Baseball Boy: You’re not ready to find out what … means.
Heat curls between my legs as I imagine all the different meanings of … And none of them are PG. I close my eyes and exhale a deep breath to push away the indecent thoughts running through my head.
He’s right. Even though my body is absolutely interested in finding out the meaning, I’m not ready for the answer.
Don’t you have a game to play?
A picture of his jersey hanging in a locker comes through. Romero and the number 82 are written across the back of his blue away-jersey. The image has me wondering what it would be like to see him play in person, wearing his jersey and cheering him on from the stands.
I’m so screwed.
Where are all the guys walking around in towels?
Baseball Boy: What other guys? There is only me.
…
Baseball Boy: Smartass. What’s your work schedule this week?
Why?
Baseball Boy: Stop being difficult.
A loud laugh bubbles out of me. I can picture him grinding his molars and taking a huge deep breath as the roaring lion head tattoo on his neck undulates.
I don’t know why I do it, but I send him my schedule for the week. Another text pops up with a link to a streaming service with the username and password.
What’s this for?
Baseball Boy: In case you miss me and want to check out my ass squatting behind the plate.
You’re ridiculous.
Baseball Boy: Nope. Just hopeful.
Go to work and hit a home run or something.
Baseball Boy: Is that a request?
I don’t think it works that way.
Baseball Boy: Watch and find out. Later, gattina.
The commentators chat, and I listen as I make myself comfortable on the couch and wrap my favorite blue cashmere blanket around my shoulders. I repeatedly told myself not to watch Nico’s game, but curiosity got the best of me.
It was definitely not because I missed him and wanted to stare at his delicious glutes in those tight baseball pants he wears to play.
“Romero steps up to the plate. He’s having an amazing game. He’s two for two, having hit an RBI with that ground-rule double at the top of the first and the banger of a single that brought in two more runs in the fourth.”
“You’re right, Vince. Romero is having quite a game. It doesn’t hurt that Cameron Miller is pitching strike after strike as the Evaders lead 6-0 in the top of the fifth.”
Ignoring the commentators, I watch as the pitcher releases the ball and Nico swings. With a crack, his bat makes contact with the ball. It’s like he knows the outcome before the rest of us, because he grins cockily at the plate before he jogs to first base.
The camera pans, first showing the ball sail over the fence and into the stands for a home run, then back to Nico in time for me to see him trace the S in Evaders on his chest with his index finger. My jaw hits the floor as my ribs contract around my lungs, and I gasp.
Was that really for me?
I mean, he traced the S, and my name starts with an S. My heart races at the idea as an unfamiliar warmth fills my chest and flows down my limbs, making my toes and fingers tingle. I’m going to live in my delusions for just a moment longer and believe he hit that homerun for me.
My eyes stay glued on the man currently driving me crazy as he jogs around the bases, a devilish smirk on his lips.
Nico looks like sex on a stick in his uniform.
I can’t help wondering if his ass is as firm as it looks and if it’s covered in tattoos like the rest of his upper body.
I’ve seen him in shorts, and I know for sure his thighs and sculpted calves are tattoo free.
The doorbell rings, pulling me from my lusty thoughts and off my warm perch on the couch. I open the door with a smile. “Hi, Roberto. What are you doing up here?”
My doorman greets me with a grin and lifts a brown paper bag at me. “Hello, my sweet Savannah. I’ve got a special delivery for you.”
“What’s this? I didn’t order anything.” I catch a whiff of the savory contents inside as I take the bag. My mouth waters with delight as my stomach rumbles at the scent of garlic and tomatoes.
“Dinner. It was prearranged.” Roberto glances towards Nico’s apartment and grins. “I have also been instructed to remind you that you are not to cook until your neighbor returns to supervise.”
“Message received.” My cheeks warm as I bite back a smile. I hope Nico didn’t tell Roberto about the fire, if you can call it that. In my defense, it was mostly smoke.
The roar of a cheer from the TV sounds behind me.
“Thank you. I appreciate you coming all this way for me,” I rush out.
Oh gosh, now Roberto is going to know I was watching Nico.
“You’re very welcome, Savannah. You have a good night. I know our favorite catcher is. The last homerun was a doozy.” Roberto winks at me.
Busted.
“It was.” I chuckle.
Roberto and I say our goodbyes, and I march my dinner into the kitchen and take a picture, then send the photo to Nico with a text.
Now who’s the smartass. Thanks for dinner, Nicolas.
I trace the blue ink on the bag. Belladonna. I can’t believe he sent me dinner.
From his mother’s restaurant.
Something tells me he wouldn’t do this for just anyone.
Aww, crap…
Nico’s going to make it impossible for me to walk away, isn’t he?