Chapter 14 #2
“How about that wine?” I nod toward her kitchen, and she leads the way, taking her spot inside the kitchen while I help myself to a stool on the living room side of the counter. She pours us each a glass and slides one closer to me.
“I just want to clarify, that if I had a date, I’d say date.
And me saying I have plans, in order not to attend a home game, would also be exactly what I mean.
Pre-scheduled or last-minute plans. If I had a date, I might bring him to a game.
” She lifts her glass, drinking a hearty sip of wine, while glaring at me over the rim of the stemless glassware.
I growl, upset at the thought when I have no right to be worked up.
“You’re very grumpy tonight for a man who won today.”
“Sent my jacket to a woman in the stands and she ducked out early from the game.”
“Oh. And that woman was so appreciative of the jacket. Now that was a sweet gesture.” She smiles, her voice shifting, softening.
She wasn’t offended by the gift of season tickets, but she looked a little put off by them.
Maybe she was hurt by the presentation. Or maybe my gift should have been more personal.
She wasn’t specifically helping the team, but more so helping me. By sleeping with me.
Maybe Kip was right. Am I out of touch with what women want? All I really care about is what Vee might want. What she needs. And my presentation should have been more thoughtful. Something that expressed more of my gratitude for her and what she’s doing for me by playing along with my superstition.
“Speaking of your jacket, let me get it for you.” She rounds the counter for the living room.
Shifting on the stool, I catch her wrist as she nears me. “Is there a rush?” She seems eager to get me out of here tonight.
Her head lowers, eyes aimed where my hand cuffs her wrist, my thumb gently rubbing the inner skin over her pulse point.
“You don’t need to spend the night tonight.
You didn’t spend the night last night and you won today.
” Her head lifts and our eyes meet. “I think that proves the experiment isn’t necessary. ”
Panic hits like a hundred-mile-an-hour hit to the elbow, pain radiating over my limbs. I sense Vee is pulling away, about to end our arrangement. And if that happened, I might never see her again.
Shaking my head, I argue. “You were at the game today, though. And we won.”
She sighs. “So what you’re saying is now I need to start attending all the games, both here and back home?” She chuckles but the sound is strained.
Would it be selfish to say cancel any pre-scheduled plans that conflict with those home games? Probably. How about no fucking dates allowed? Yeah, that wouldn’t be right either.
“We haven’t talked about the regular season yet,” I remind her.
“I don’t think we need to go there yet,” she counters.
But we both know, time is ticking, and the calendar dates are getting crossed off on our stay in Arizona, both hers and the Anchors.
“Let’s just take it night by night then?” I lower my voice, noticing a quiver in it. A vulnerability I don’t want her hearing. I’m not ready to say goodbye to her.
“You weren’t paying much attention at the game,” I state next, wanting to shift topics, but also curious what held her interest as she clearly wasn’t attentively observing the team. Why go to a game if she isn’t interested? Then again, I recall her telling me about the atmosphere and margaritas.
She shrugs again, lowering her head, and I realize I’m still holding her wrist. With my foot, I drag the other stool forward, away from the overhanging counter, then pat the seat with my free hand.
Vee slides onto the seat, facing me, and I bracket my legs on either side of her knees. Again with my foot, I draw the stool closer to me, wedging her between my spread thighs.
“I was writing.” Vee reaches for her wineglass and sips.
“Really?” I arch one brow, both surprised and pleased that she found inspiration during the game. Then my expression folds and I bitterly chuckle. “Not two men again, I hope.”
“A whole team of players,” she chides, then she bursts out laughing and points at me. “You should see your face.”
I grab her finger and squeeze. “Not fucking funny,” I mutter. Then I lower her hand, massaging her finger like I’ve done before, tugging at the short length, and kneading along the fine bones.
Vee’s gaze drops. “That feels so nice.”
“You type all day, right?”
“Well, not all day.” She chokes on a strangled laugh. “In fact, not most days, until recently.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve been struggling to write. For months,” she emphasizes. “Publishing is a hard industry. Everyone is looking for the next great thing to write. What plot sells? What do readers want? What fits best with my brand?”
Her eyes don’t leave where I’m massaging her hand. “The first game I attended alone, inspiration struck. Might not be a best seller. Might be a plot already told. Might not even be what readers want.” She scoffs.
“But it’s a story. A romantic one, at that.” Her voice lulls, offering another wistful sigh mingling with secret wonder. Like she’s both pleased and surprised at the romantic nature of her own storytelling.
“What’s it about?”
Her head lifts, eyes staring directly at me for a split second before darting away. “I don’t think I’m ready to share yet. I’m in the early stages still.”
“Well, I’m glad inspiration struck. And I look forward to reading it. Once you’re ready to share.” I dip my head, forcing her eyes to meet mine again.
She clears her throat. “Cameron was never interested in my books.”
My fingers still from working her hand, and I stare at her face, where her eyes are avoiding mine once more.
“And Cameron is . . .”
“My late husband.” She lifts her shoulders dismissively. “He wasn’t interested in story lines, or reading my books, or even talking about the business side of publishing. He didn’t care.”
I hurt for her like I’ve taken a fast ball to the chest. “He probably cared, he just didn’t know how to show his interest or what questions to ask.”
She weakly smiles, her voice sad. “No. He really didn’t care about my writing.”
I don’t want to believe it. What kind of man isn’t interested in his wife’s career? About the thing that brings her joy because writing certainly gives Vee pleasure. She lights up when she talks about her work. At least, the bits and pieces she’s shared.
“I became used to not talking about my career, so I’m sorry if I sound standoffish about it. It’s just hard to believe you’d really be interested in hearing about the book world, as we call it.”
“Vee,” I groan, tipping up her chin. “I’m interested.” In the book world, in her world, in her.
“Talk all you want. Share plot ideas or storylines. Tell me about the industry. Because you know about mine. You know about baseball and superstitions. And you know that I’m right where I wanted to be, managing the Anchors.
It makes me happy.” I chuckle. “I’m stressed, but content.
And I can tell writing books makes you happy, so share that shit with me. ”
She laughs soggily while blinking rapidly a few times, clearing her eyes of tears she doesn’t want me to notice.
“Share the stresses, too.”
She laughs a little harder, swiping at the corner of her eye to dissolve a tear before it falls. “Thank you.”
The desire to pull her close, hug her, heck, even kiss her, is so strong, I find myself leaning forward, then stop the trajectory.
Still, I want to reassure her I’m here for her.
I even consider teasing her about her polyamorous plotline to dissolve her sadness, but reconsider that jest as well.
Instead, I ask something I’m more curious about.
“So, is this a baseball romance? Did I get the terminology correct?”
She snorts softly. Not a full snortle, but a pleasing sound all the same, tells me I’m correct. “You’re the one who mentioned baseball and romance go together.”
I smile that she remembers something about our first night.
I also wonder how she’d feel about experiencing first base with me.