Chapter 8 #2
The owner’s box is nice, but we prefer to be closer to the action and love the energy of the crowd. That’s not something the folks being served fancy hors d’oeuvres with flights of wine from our private label seem to have.
A beer, a hot dog, and the occasional crowd wave are much more entertaining. And because I have the best friend in the world, Savvy has already set me up by the time I find her. “For moi?”
“Oui.” She grins, but as soon as her eyes land on me, her jaw drops. “Va. Va. Voom,” she replies, looking me over.
I don’t know if I should take the compliment or be self-conscious. Looking down at my cleavage, I find it’s debatable. “Yeah. I wanted to ask you about this jersey—”
“I ordered a size down . . .” Looking around to see if anyone is eavesdropping, she cups her hand on the side of her mouth and whispers, “Or two, so it would show off what the good lord gave ya. But holy sexiness, Crick.” She laughs under her breath.
“I’m glad your dad isn’t here to see this. He’d be fuming.”
“He would, but how did you think I’d react?
” I sit beside her. “So you plot a plan out to purposely sabotage the fit of my shirt for this family-friendly fundraiser for high school sports for some reason, but then when said plan works, I’m lucky my dad didn’t show up?
Got it.” I shake my head. “You’re lucky I’m such a forgiving boss, or you’d be fired. ”
“Fired for creating a smoke show in the stands?” Her casual shrug and half smirk aren’t doing her any favors. “And let’s state the facts, ma’am. You didn’t have to wear it, but here you and the girls are in all your glory. So how upset can you really be?”
I face forward, my hackles up from being called out like that. “Oh my God. I can’t with you.” She’s not wrong, though. I had choices, but I still wore it like I didn’t.
She bursts out laughing. “You do look incredible, if that makes a difference.”
“It does, and,” I start, readjusting on the seat cushion. “I needed the boost today.”
“You’re welcome.”
“I didn’t say thank you.”
Her shoulders pop up, then fall again. “I knew what you meant, though.” Pointing at the field, she locks her eyes onto her man in uniform. “Now shhhh. The show’s starting.”
“What show? The game doesn’t start for another fifteen minutes.”
“The real show. Warm-up.” Glancing at me, she adds, “It’s my favorite part of the game.”
“It’s not part of the game. It’s the preshow.”
“Exactly. Just take a look for yourself.”
I follow her gaze to her fiancée on the field, but he doesn’t hold my attention for long when the guy near him steals it instead.
All six-three of that man is on the ground stretching his legs.
With his weight on his hands, he’s leaning forward with his pelvis aimed down.
A slow, calculated gyration forward has my throat going dry.
When he shifts back and does it again, sweat beads at my hairline.
Up. Down. Back and forth. “Oh.” Words elude me.
I lick my lips and narrow my eyes for a better look.
Savvy slides my glasses from the top of my head to rest on the bridge of my nose. With a clearer picture, I chuckle when she asks, “See?”
“I most definitely see.” Boy, do I ever.
I adjust my glasses to sit properly on my face.
When I look back at the field, I swear he’s staring right at me.
It’s not his eyes that get me. It’s the heat emanating from him across the field to me.
I glance down at the cup of beer next to me, then pick it up to chug some down.
Alcohol probably isn’t the best way to cool down, but it’s worth trying. And the distraction I need.
I don’t know why or how he affects me so much, but I’m beginning to think that Costa Rica isn’t so far behind us that it isn’t worth a revisit. Good lord, Cricket!
Absolutely not. “Jesus.” I use the back of my hand to wipe my forehead. “I might need to—”
“Walk it off?” Fake sympathy shapes her expression, but a grin wins out. “I get it.”
I level a glare at her. “Funny.”
“I thought so.”
She’s always good for some laughs, but her jokes are on point today. Or maybe it’s me being sloppy with my slips when it comes to him. He’s thrown me off-kilter, messed with my focus, and it shows.
Returning my gaze to the field, I dart my eyes from one place to the next with no luck finding him.
I could be disappointed, but as air returns to my lungs, I’m grateful for the reprieve.
He may not play pro ball anymore, but he’s every bit of a professional at getting a reaction out of me. Good or bad.
Savvy nudges me with her elbow and then whispers, “He’s in the dugout.”
Not ready to admit that I’m starting to see the man a little differently since he ironed a few things out between us.
Namely, I’m not the enemy, stalker, or fan he made me out to be in the beginning.
Since my righteous indignation has started to subside, I realize I might have been a bit hard on him.
Maybe, just maybe, he’s not as bad as I first thought he was.
It’s too soon to decide.
There’s always a chance he’ll open his mouth again . . .