2. Gwen
two
Gwen
Past
“Here’s to getting smashed by a hottie tonight!”
The crowd of people near us cheers as my best friend raises her overfilled shot glass into the air, spilling some of the tequila.
A mischievous grin fills Jenna’s face as her eyes dip to the shot in my hand and back. “Well, what are you waiting for?”
My bestie is determined to make the most of our time together before I fly to California while she stays behind in New York. Living in LA has been an adjustment, but it’s home.
“I’m not drinking to that. I do not need smashing of any kind,” I remind her.
I’m technically at a work event, and the last thing I need is to say or do something stupid. When your family owns one of baseball’s most lucrative franchises, you are always working.
Poise, professionalism, and propriety. One misstep, and it could backfire on the family or, worse, the team.
“That’s where you’re wrong. If you don’t do something about your sex drought, you’re going to grow cobwebs down there.” She points at my crotch and wiggles her eyebrows.
I push her hand away. “No.”
“Come on,” Jenna whines, lifting the shot in my hand up toward my lips. “No one is around; just drink it.”
“You’re a bad influence.” My admonishment gets a devilish grin.
“I know.”
Jenna’s bad influence is one of the reasons I love her, and she knows it.
She forces me out of my comfort zone. She’s the yin to my yang.
My ride-or-die. We’ve had each other’s backs since day one, and nothing will ever change that.
Which is why she’s the only person who could convince me to do anything.
A smile tugs at my lips. “I hate you.”
“Nope, you love me.” Jenna’s grin rivals the Cheshire Cat’s. “Besides, you’re moving back to Cali in three days, and I’ll be left here in the city all alone.” Jenna pouts and gives me sad puppy eyes.
“You’re a terrible friend for giving me a guilt trip,” I tell her.
Jenna throws her head back and laughs. She knows exactly what she’s doing and that I can’t say no to her. I’ve missed her so much since I moved.
We’ve shared an apartment for eight years, and not seeing each other every day has been a big adjustment for us.
But it was never my plan to stay on the East Coast as long as I did. I was supposed to get as much job experience as I could, then tell my father I was ready to work for the Evaders like him and my three older brothers.
Searching the area to make sure the coast is clear—because I do not want my family to see me having too much fun—I lift the heavy shot glass in the air. “Here’s to you, bestie. Let’s have some fun, baby.”
The alcohol burns as it slips down my throat and pools in my belly, making me wince. I can’t remember the last time I took a shot.
“Girl, yes!” Jenna slides another full glass my way.
I shake my head. “Nuh-uh. No way.”
“Yes.” Jenna lifts the second shot to my lips. There’s no use fighting her when she’s in party mode; better to just get it done.
“Fine.” Sucking in a deep breath, I ready myself for the burn and throw back the second round of booze.
“Hell yeah!” Jenna slugs down another shot, then grabs my hand and drags me onto the dance floor. “Time for us to dance our asses off!”
The tequila buzzes beneath my skin as we find a spot in the crowd. Inhibitions lowered, I let myself fall in sync with the pulsing music as I dance with my bestie.
I don’t know how long we dance, or how many more shots Jenna convinces me to drink, but at some point my head spins and sweat breaks out along the back of my neck.
Air. I need air.
I spot Jenna mid-grind with some guy in the middle of the dance floor. I tap her shoulder and shout over the music, “I need fresh air; I’m gonna go upstairs. I’ll be back.”
“Okay, be safe. I’ll be right here,” she shouts back as the guy she’s dancing with grips her hips and pulls her back flush to his chest.
Pushing through the sea of dancers, I make my way toward the back staircase that leads to the roof. The temperature slowly drops as I take the three flights up.
Near the top, I sidestep a group of players I’m not familiar with as they whoop and holler. They’re glassy-eyed and joyful, celebrating the culmination of all their hard work this season.
My thoughts jump to a different group of baseball players I’ve yet to see tonight as I push through the rooftop door. Scanning the rooftop for a quiet area, my eyes zero in on the corner spot hidden behind a rectangular planter of mini lemon cypress trees.
The lights of the city skyline glitter across the horizon as I position myself at the edge of the roof, where the frosted glass barriers surround the space, and grip the top, taking a much-needed deep breath of the cold air.
My tequila-induced spins slow, and the heat coursing through me simmers to a low heat as a cold gust of wind hits me in the face. The night air wraps its icy tendrils around me while simultaneously carrying a deep, raspy voice on its wings.
Chills race down my spine, making me shiver.
There’s only one thing, one person, that sends that type of shiver through me, and it’s not the freezing temps or the frosty breeze whipping around the surrounding skyscrapers.
Without thinking, I turn around to find Lance Taylor with a cellphone to his ear as he mumbles something to the person on the other end. Even when he’s sitting, you can sense his height and strength.
I stand frozen, rooted to the ground, watching him.
My heart somersaults in my chest like it does every time I see him. He’s wearing dark slacks and a gray button-up with the sleeves rolled to his elbows.
Damn, he really is fine.
I still think I prefer him in baseball pants. They mold his chest and butt better.
Note to self: Drinking tequila makes my brain say and think about things it shouldn’t.
Stowing my wandering thoughts away, I take in the defeated-looking baseball player.
He’s sitting on the floor, back to the planter, with one long leg stretched out before him and the other bent, arm resting on his kneecap as his head sags down, chin to chest. He runs a thick hand over the back of his shaved head.
Lance has found the only spot available to hide away from the rest of the world. His sad demeanor is such a contrast to when I saw him last. Hurt radiates off him in waves.
An uncontrollable hiccup bubbles out of me, catching his attention. His head lifts, and his cornflower-blue eyes find mine, hitting me with an unknown force, sending me back a step.
Busted. Caught like a creepy stalker, standing here watching him.
Without taking his eyes off me, he ends his call and shoves his phone into the pocket of his charcoal-gray slacks.
A thick and heavy silence falls over us.
Say something, you dummy.
“Hey,” I squeak out.
Seriously? “Hey” is all you can come up with? Earth, please swallow me now.
My cheeks flame as embarrassment tramples my tequila buzz to death.
Lance continues to watch me, and I can’t help but shift from foot to foot as his eyes roam up and down my body.
Does he think I’m a stalker?
“Sorry for, uh, interrupting.” Nervously, I reach up and wind a curl around my finger.
“It’s fine.” Lance sighs, then leans back against the planter and closes his eyes.
Again, I sense profound sadness in his aura.
“Is everything okay?” He doesn’t answer, and I can’t help but chatter on—something I do when I’m nervous, which isn’t often. I’m a calm and collected person, but I can be bubbly and extroverted when needed. “I swear I didn’t mean to eavesdrop.”
Lance opens his eyes and smiles sadly. “I didn’t think you were.”
I don’t know why, but something tells me, Don’t walk away, so I point to the spot beside him. “Mind if I sit down?”
“Nope.”
Pulling down my skirt, I drop to my knees, then twist and sit on my bottom, back to the planter like him. My breath hitches as my thighs kiss the cold concrete.
“I’m Gwen, by the way,” I say, slightly turning toward him to see if there’s even a hint of recognition on his face. There isn’t.
I knew there wouldn’t be, but it still stings.
“Lance,” he says, introducing himself.
“I know who you are,” I respond with a chuckle.
“Ah. Of course you do.” He nods in understanding.
“Yeah. I’m kind of an Evaders fan,” I tease.
I’m more than a fan, but he doesn’t need to know that. This might be the only chance I get with Lance where he speaks to me as though I’m just another woman he met at a club, and not the owner’s daughter.
“A real fan?” he asks. His tone isn’t completely judgmental, but the underlying tone is there.
“Yes. A true fan. I can list off stats if you want?” I turn my head to the side, watching the blue in his eyes flash with a variety of questions.
He’s intrigued. It’s not a problem with me if he wants me to prove my fandom membership.
“Tonight was the Evaders’ first franchise win in thirty years.
This season, Cameron Miller pitched two-hundred and sixty-six strikeouts, Nico Romero hit fifty-six home runs—the most in the league—and you raised your batting average from two ninety-one to two ninety-five. ”
“Okay, you can stop.,” Lance shakes his head in disbelief.
“I passed the test?” I can’t help but smile at him.
“Yes, you passed. Anyone tell you that you are kind of a smart-ass?” he asks.
“All the time.” We fall into a comfortable silence beside each other as we stare at the view of Midtown Manhattan. “I have to say, you don’t look as happy as you should be after winning the World Series.”
“Hmm,” he grunts. He still hasn’t smiled, but I get the sense he’s loosening up.
“Not a big talker?” I ask.
“Not really.”
He might not be a guy of many words, but when necessary, I can be. It’s my job, and I’m great at my job. “They say if you talk about your problems, it helps.”
“Who’s they?” he asks.
My heart skips a beat as his baby-blue eyes lock onto mine.
“Therapists?”
“Are you a therapist?” The corner of his lips twitch, sending butterflies in my stomach soaring.
What is it about him that makes my body go haywire?
I smirk at him and say, “For the right price, I can be.”
Lance barks a deliciously deep, rumbly laugh, and I feel as though I’m the one who won the World Series. Liquid heat rushes through my veins and settles between my legs.
“You’re funny. But I’m still not telling you.” He sounds adamant, but I see the cracks in his facade. Since I sat down, the muscles in his neck have softened, and there’s a gleam in his eyes.
“Stranger danger?” I ask. I’m starting to get a kick out of pulling a reaction out of him. I don’t think his feathers get ruffled easily.
“Something like that.” He chuckles, rubbing his square jaw with his large palm.
“What if we became friends?” I offer.
“And how do you suggest we do that?”
I can feel his stare as I tap my lips with my fingers and think up an idea. I’m most certainly not thinking about how his blue gaze makes my chest tight and my palms sweat.
“Got it. We each say five things we like. Then, five things we don’t like.
I’ll start. I like donuts, especially ones with pink frosting and sprinkles.
I like dogs, even though I’ve never had a pet.
I like to watch crime documentaries. Pink is my favorite color, and French fries are the best food on the planet. ”
“Donuts and fries?” There’s a hint of skepticism in his eyes as he watches me. As if he doesn’t quite believe I’m a fan of fatty, delicious food.
“Don’t judge,” I chide him.
“I’m not judging.” He puts his hands up in surrender and smiles.
My stomach dips like it does when I’m riding a roller coaster. It’s exhilarating and addictive.
“Your turn,” I tell him, giving his shoulder a nudge.
“Fine, you win.” Lance grins, and it hits me like a bolt of electricity. “But you’re wrong. Tacos are the best food on the planet. I read mystery novels when I travel. My favorite color is blue, and I have a secret stash of dark chocolate in the drawer by my bed.”
“One more.” I wiggle four fingers at him.
“And I think you’re cute.” The flirt winks at me, and my stomach somersaults again.
He thinks I’m cute.
Don’t go there, Gwen.
Doing my best to ignore the way my cheeks heat at his compliment, I curl my right ankle under my left knee and twist in his direction. “Nice try, flatterer. Tell me something real.”
I watch his emotions play out in his blue eyes as he stares at my face, deciding if he wants to answer my question.
“I like flowers.”
“Flowers?” I repeat in the same teasing tone he did when I mentioned liking both pizza and donuts.
Lance shrugs and once again shifts his focus to the city skyline as he says, “My mom and grandma own a flower shop. The smell of flowers reminds me of home.”
An invisible rope wraps around my chest and squeezes at his admission. I bet he’s never told someone that before.
Who knew the quiet, bad-boy baseball player was such a softy.