Chapter Eight
Ava
The restaurant Reece chose is buried in a neighborhood I’ve never heard of, forty minutes outside the city. No sports memorabilia on the walls, no televisions broadcasting games, the lighting is dim, bordering on romantic, and the clientele looks more interested in their pasta than their phones.
It’s perfect, and I hate how much thought he clearly put into it.
He’s already at the table when I arrive, wearing dark jeans and a button-down with the sleeves rolled to his elbows. His hair is damp from a shower, and when he stands to pull out my chair, I catch the scent of his soap.
“You’re early,” I say, sitting before he can make a big production of it.
“I’m punctual.” He settles back into his seat, grinning. “You’re the one who’s exactly on time. Control issues?”
“Punctuality isn’t a control issue.”
“It is when you circled the block three times to make sure you weren’t early.”
My mouth falls open. “How did you…”
“Saw your car pass the window. Twice.” His grin widens. “The third time I stopped counting.”
Heat creeps up my neck. “I was finding parking.”
“Sure, you were.”
The waiter arrives before I can defend myself, and Reece orders wine without looking at the menu. When the waiter leaves, he leans back in his chair, studying me with open amusement.
“What?” I demand.
“Nothing. You’re cute when you’re flustered.”
“I’m not flustered.”
“Your ears are red.”
I resist the urge to touch them. “You’re annoying.”
“You knew this going in.”
“I’m reconsidering my choices.”
“No, you’re not.” He reaches across the table, fingers brushing mine. The touch is light and casual, but it sends electricity straight up my arm. “You’re having a good time.”
I pull my hand back. “Cocky.”
“Accurate.”
The wine arrives, and I take a generous sip while Reece watches with barely concealed smugness. He’s enjoying seeing me off-balance, defensive, and trying desperately to maintain composure.
“So,” he says, swirling his wine. “Tell me something real.”
“Real?”
“About you. Something I can’t find on Instagram or hear from your dad’s press conferences.”
I narrow my eyes. “You’ve been stalking my Instagram?”
“Research. There’s a difference.”
“That’s the definition of stalking.”
“Then I’m a dedicated stalker.” He takes a sip. “Your feed is very… curated. Lots of tattoo work. Zero personal photos. It’s like you’re allergic to showing your face.”
“I’m private.”
“You’re hiding.”
The observation hits closer than I’d admit. I set my glass down carefully. “What do you want to know?”
“Anything. Everything.” He leans forward, elbows on the table. “Why tattoos? Why not painting or sculpture or literally any other art form?”
I wasn’t expecting a genuine question. Most people ask about pain tolerance or whether I have tattoos. But he would know that just by looking at my arms. The fact that Reece is asking about motivation throws me.
“Permanence,” I say finally. “Tattoos are forever. You can’t erase them, paint over them, or pretend they didn’t happen. People choose to mark their bodies with something meaningful, and I get to be part of making it real.”
He’s really listening and not waiting for his turn to talk.
“Plus…” I add, “… there’s power in it. Taking someone’s story, memory, or loss and turning it into art they carry with them. It matters.”
“You matter,” he says quietly.
I take another sip of wine, needing the distraction.
“Your turn,” I say. “Why baseball?”
“Family tradition. My dad played minor league, never made it to the majors. I was determined to finish what he started.” His expression shifts, something complicated crossing his face.
“Then he died when I was sixteen, and suddenly it wasn’t about tradition anymore.
It was about proving I could do it. Be someone. ”
“I’m sorry about your dad.”
He shrugs, but there’s tension in his shoulders. “Long time ago. But yeah, baseball stopped being fun somewhere around my junior year of college. Became an obligation. A debt I had to repay.”
“And now?”
“Now?” His eyes meet mine. “Now I’m remembering why I loved it in the first place.”
The weight of his gaze makes my chest tighten. This is dangerous territory. Soft confessions, meaningful looks, and the kind of vulnerability I specifically asked him not to bring into this.
“Reece…”
“I know. Staying casual.” He sits back, the moment breaking. “But you asked, and I answered. That real enough for you?”
“It’s a start.”
Before he can say anything else, a server appears beside the table, setting down a small dish of olives and warm bread, the smell of garlic and herbs cutting through the tension I’m feeling.
“Are you ready to order?” she asks, pen poised.
Reece glances at me, a corner of his mouth lifting. “Probably safer if we eat before we keep oversharing.”
I snort despite myself. “Agreed.”
I order a creamy seafood pasta. Reece goes straight for a large meat-lovers pizza, no hesitation, and adds a salad to share. The server moves on, leaving the bread and tension between us.
Reece reaches for a piece, then pauses, eyes flicking to me. “You should have some too.”
“Oh?” I arch a brow.
“Garlic bread,” he says seriously. “That way, you won’t think I’m revolting when I kiss you later.”
I laugh, sharp and disbelieving. “Bold of you to assume I’m going to kiss you.”
He doesn’t laugh back.
Instead, he leans in just enough that his voice drops, his gaze steady and intent. “I’m not assuming.”
My pulse stutters.
“I’m telling you.”
The air between us shifts. It feels charged, and suddenly the garlic bread is the least dangerous thing on the table.
Reece breaks eye contact, and the conversation shifts to safer topics, like his teammates’ ridiculous superstitions, my most challenging tattoo designs, and the absolutely unhinged thing Mack did last week involving a dare and a mascot costume.
By the time dessert comes, I’ve laughed more than I have in months, and the knot of anxiety in my chest has loosened considerably.
We’re sharing tiramisu when Reece’s phone buzzes. He glances at it, and his jaw tightens.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
“Lena.” He silences the phone without reading the message. “Third time today.”
“What does she want?”
“Attention. Drama. Pick your poison.” He sets the phone face down on the table. “She’s been texting more since the photos.”
“What photos?”
“Sports blog posted a shot of me leaving your studio a few weeks ago. Nothing incriminating, but she’s got opinions about it.”
Ice floods my veins. “People saw you at my studio?”
“One person with a camera phone. It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine. If people start connecting dots…”
“Ava.” He reaches across the table again, this time catching my hand before I can pull away. “Look at me.”
I do, reluctantly.
“We’re being careful. This place is forty minutes from the stadium. No one knows we’re here.” His thumb traces circles on my palm. “And even if they did? I don’t care.”
“You should care. Your contract—”
“Will be fine. I promise.”
“You can’t promise things outside your control.”
“Then I’ll promise this.” He squeezes my hand. “Whatever happens, we handle it together. No running, no panic. Together.”
The word sits between us, significant and terrifying.
“We barely know each other,” I whisper.
“Then let’s fix that.”
We start meeting at odd hours in strange places.
Tuesday morning, before practice, Reece shows up at a coffee shop three blocks from my apartment. He’s wearing a baseball cap pulled low and sunglasses even though the sun is barely up.
“Subtle,” I say, sliding into the booth across from him.
“I’m incognito.”
“You look suspicious.”
“Same thing.” He pushes a coffee toward me. “Oat milk latte, one sugar, extra foam. Right?”
I stare at the cup. “How did you—”
“You mentioned it last week at dinner.”
“I said it once.”
“I was paying attention.”
Something warm and dangerous blooms in my chest. I take a sip to hide whatever expression is trying to take over my face. It’s perfect.
“Show-off,” I mutter.
“You love it.”
Thursday night, he texts me at eleven.
Reece: You awake?
Me: Unfortunately.
Reece: Meet me.
Me: It’s 11 p.m.
Reece: And?
Me: Normal people sleep.
Reece: We’re not normal people.
He sends an address.
I should ignore it.
Go to bed.
Be responsible.
I’m in my car ten minutes later.
The address leads to an overlook outside the city, empty except for his truck. He’s sitting on the tailgate when I pull up, two takeout bags beside him.
“You brought food?”
“I brought tacos.” He pats the space next to him. “And a view.”
The city sprawls below us, lights twinkling against the dark. It’s admittedly beautiful, and the tacos smell incredible.
I climb onto the tailgate. “This is ridiculous.”
“This is romantic.”
“It’s a truck bed.”
“It’s a truck bed with tacos and excellent company.” He hands me a wrapped taco. “Admit it, you’re charmed.”
“I’m cold.”
Without a word, he shrugs off his jacket and drapes it over my shoulders. It’s warm from his body heat and smells entirely too good.
“Better?” he asks.
“Marginally.”
We eat in comfortable silence, watching the city. My shoulder brushes his, and neither of us moves away. When I finish my taco, he hands me another without asking.
“You’re going to make me fat,” I complain.
“You’re perfect.”
The casual way he says it, matter-of-fact and sincere, does something catastrophic to my defenses.
“You can’t say things that easily.”
“Why not?”
“Because…” I gesture vaguely. “Because it’s too much.”
“It’s the truth.” He wipes his hands on a napkin, then turns to face me fully. “You’re brilliant and talented and the most frustratingly guarded person I’ve ever met. You’re also beautiful, but I figured you knew already.”
“Reece.”
“I’m not trying to overwhelm you. I’m trying to be honest.” His hand finds mine between us. “If it’s too much, tell me. I’ll back off. But don’t ask me to pretend I don’t see you, Ava, because I do. All of you.”