Chapter 8 #2
His gaze drops to the table, his fingers sliding up and down the side of his to-go cup.
“Back in October, she called things off. Not that we were on. We only went on a few dates together, but she’d wanted me to call her my girlfriend, and I wouldn’t do that.
But we had prior commitments to fulfill, and we weren’t each other’s date in the traditional sense. ”
“I didn’t realize there was a non-traditional sense.” I tilt my head.
“Well, we’d certainly be in a non-traditional position.
” His gaze flits between us before he glances over his shoulder, checking the nearness of other customers before he leans closer to me.
“I mean, how often does a man ask a woman to sleep with him, only for sleep.” He pauses, his forehead furrowing. “Out of necessity.”
I snort. A deep, obnoxious honk. Covering my nose with my hand, I fake a cough.
His eyes widen, a smile tugging at his mouth. “Was that a snort?”
“It was a snortle.”
He chuckles. “What the hell is a snortle?”
“More like a snort slash laugh, but not a true snort. A distant cousin of sorts.”
His mouth slowly ticks higher, spreading wider before he lifts his mug to cover the fact he wants to laugh. At me.
“And what is that sound all about?” He tips up one brow while bringing his cup to his lips, sipping at his fresh coffee.
“There is no way sleeping with me is a necessity.” My voice is too loud, the absurdity echoing around us.
Ross chokes on his drink before glancing over his shoulder once more. Then he turns back to me, expression firm and serious while vulnerable and raw at the same time. He lowers his voice. “This is important. To me.”
We’re silent a second while he stares at his coffee cup again.
“However,” he clears his throat. “I haven’t asked if you have someone in your life. Maybe this would be a conflict of interest for him.”
What if it’s a conflict of interest for me?
My real concern is the close proximity of our bodies in a bed.
That first night, something special occurred.
Something magical and spontaneous, and trying to recreate that moment is like setting words to paper when you can’t summon a coherent thought.
Or sending a steal signal to a player when he doesn’t have enough time to reach the next base.
You can’t force something that might have been a one-time occurrence. A happy chance.
I’d like to think Ross knows this is an awkward, even stressful, predicament he’s requesting of me.
Lowering my head, I slowly shake it. “There isn’t anyone else.” He knows I’m a widow, if he remembers everything as he claims he does.
Silence lingers between us another second. My thoughts scramble between Ross not wanting to call Chandler his official girlfriend and his proposal for me.
“What would I get out of this arrangement?” I’m not trying to sound greedy or even selfish. I hadn’t considered that I should get something out of this bargain until this moment.
“Do you want to be paid?” His brows lift, wrinkling his forehead.
My mouth falls open. “I’m not for hire.” Collapsing back in my chair and crossing my arms over my midsection which only accentuates the wet stains and hard nipples, like headlights announcing an approaching disaster, I glare at him across the table.
Ross clears his throat. “I didn’t mean to insult you. Of course, I want this to be mutually beneficial, but I don’t know what I can offer you in return.” His eyes sheepishly meet mine, and then lower for the cup between his large hands.
I’m not suggesting tit-for-tat. I’m simply bamboozled by his idea that this kind of arrangement might help him. Help the Anchors.
“I am just trying to understand your thinking. Your reasoning.”
Ross extends his arms while not releasing the to-go mug centered on the table between his hands. “I need this. I need to make an impression. I need wins.”
“You’re the manager, Ross. You’d been a player a long time before you took to coaching. You’re a good coach. You know what to do.” I emphasize. “You’ve done this before with the Flash.”
His gaze lands on mine. “And look how that turned out for me.”
He might have been let go from the Flash, but he also wanted to return to Chicago, or at least, that’s what he told me months ago.
“Look, Coach,” I chide. “It’s the beginning of the season. All teams look rough. You move players around like chess pieces if you need to, but they’ll get there. You’ll get there.” Wherever the proverbial there is.
“Is this supposed to be a pep talk?” His mouth crooks upward again. His eyes blaze with heat, but the flame is soft.
“Whatever it takes,” I tell him.
“What it might take is another night together.” His entire demeanor shifts, and although I’m a writer, I can’t find the words to describe his expression, other than a puppy-dog plea despite the white scruff along his jaw suggesting he’s more like man’s lifelong best friend than a scrappy pup.
Now who is the adorable one?
I sigh as thoughts collide in my head. What would it really hurt? We’ve already spent a night together. It’s only a bed and a few hours. We don’t need to touch. We don’t even need to talk. One night might prove his superstition is simply unwarranted. I am not lucky for him.
“Okay,” I mutter, lowering my gaze for the tea I’ve left untouched since burning my mouth.
I’m not a superstitious person, so I’m hopeful that scalding move wasn’t a foreshadow that Ross Davis could burn me in this process. However, as I appear to have lost my head, I can’t be trusted to interpret symbolism.
“Yeah?” His voice lifts, hopeful while hesitant.
“Yeah.”
And the next question I ask is almost as ludicrous as this entire idea. “What time is your bedtime?”