34. Gwen
thirty-four
Gwen
Present
After feeding me and offering me some insight on my current situationship with Lance, Juju pushed me out the door of her house so I could, in her words, “get my little ass to work and show ’em what I’m made of.”
Two and a half hours later—because Southern California traffic blows—I made it to the stadium for what felt like the longest day of work. My head is going to explode if I look at another spreadsheet tonight.
All I want to do is take a long hot shower, put on some pajamas, and watch a show while lying in bed.
I close the door to my apartment and toss my keys into the small ceramic bowl on the table by the entryway. Flicking on the lights, I glance around my place. My place is a small, one-bedroom apartment in one of the nicest areas as close to the Evaders stadium as you can get.
Even though it’s tiny, I love the space. It has hardwood floors, exposed brick, and new appliances. I’ve made it my own by adding lots of colors—especially pink—a fluffy, cozy sofa, and whitewashed wood furniture.
Plus, the neighborhood is amazing. Close to so many restaurants and shops, and the drive to work, even in traffic, is at most twenty minutes. Unlike Lance’s house, which takes three times as long to get to the stadium from.
His home is beautiful. It has so much charm and character.
I think I fell in love with it the moment I drove through the wrought-iron gate and around the circle driveway.
The cute Spanish architecture. The unique modern flair.
It’s not the type of house I pictured Lance to live in, but it somehow fits him.
The ache in my chest grows uncomfortably tight as I think about Lance and how I miss him.
I still haven’t texted him back. I feel terrible for not responding, but I’m not sure what to say.
Do I ask what he means when he says he’ll catch me? Do I bring up running out of his house after walking in on him in the shower?
Shower …
Like I have a hundred times today, I picture water cascading down his hard body as his hand firmly grips his …
Nope. Do not think about a certain hot baseball player in the shower, doing … things.
I slip off my heels and reach into my purse, grabbing my phone, and then drag myself to my room.
My sanctuary. It’s not a huge space, but I was able to fit in a queen bed and a dresser.
The essentials are all I need. While living in New York, I learned that less is more when it comes to small apartments.
Feet aching, I strip out of the simple gray slacks and white button-up Juju had in the guest closet. She keeps it stocked with all kinds of spare clothes. Being her only granddaughter has its benefits.
Naked and phone in hand, I enter the bathroom and turn on the shower, letting it get hot. I prop my phone on the little stand I have by the sink and open the music app. I pull up my favorite ladies-of-the-80s playlist, connect it to the speaker in my bathroom, and press Play.
I climb into the shower, reveling in the hot water and letting it wash away the stress of the day. It’s not just work causing my anxiety to shoot up to sky-high levels; Lance is too.
I’m not sure how I want to handle what’s going on between us. It’s why I haven’t texted him. I need some form of clarity before I do.
I am without a doubt attracted to the sinfully delicious man, and he is undoubtedly attracted to me. Fighting or getting along, sparks fly when we are together.
That connection, that fire, is why I took off. It’s overwhelming and could easily consume me.
I felt it in the way my body reacted as I watched him pleasure himself. My feet wouldn’t move because I wanted to watch, to hear him grunt my name as he came.
In that moment, I wanted more and he knew it, and it scared the living hell out of me.
As I wash my hair, I picture the burning fire in his blue eyes as he stared at me, stroking his cock.
Exhaling a breath and ignoring the way my body reacts, I rinse the shampoo from my long locks, then apply my leave-in conditioner. As I wash my body, my music is replaced by the ring of an incoming call.
Joan Jett’s voice returns, singing about her bad reputation, when a text alert chirps.
Since I am the least patient person and need to check my phone, I rinse the conditioner out of my hair early.
I turn off the water and reach for the jersey-knit hair towel on the rack, wrapping my hair in it to prevent my curls from frizzing.
Quickly drying off, I wrap the towel around my chest and step out of the shower.
Swiping out of my music app, I tap the message. My heart flips with delight at the sight of a new message from Lance.
Lance: You up?
A booty-call text, really? A smirk pulls at my lips as my fingers fly across the screen.
Just got out of the shower. Are you up?
I stare at the screen with a smile, watching the three dots dance. His message makes me laugh. I knew he wouldn’t be able to help himself.
Lance: I am now.
Lance: Can I call you?
Give me ten.
I toss my phone onto the bed and rush through my nightly skincare routine.
Serums and lotions on the face and body oil everywhere else.
Then I quickly rub in a curl cream, brush it through my locks, and blow-dry my hair with the diffuser.
Normally my hair process takes twenty minutes, but five will have to do.
Ten minutes on the dot, my phone rings. I slip on my pajamas and climb into bed, leaning against the headboard. I take a deep breath, then accept the call. “Hey.”
“Hey.” Lance’s gravelly voice makes my stomach flip, and my brain scratches like an old record player.
A silence falls between us, heavy and awkward, so I blurt out the first thing that comes to mind. “Sorry about the loss tonight.”
The Evaders lost to the New York Hawks 5–3. It must sting, seeing as they beat the Hawks in the World Series.
“It’s still early in the season, but losses happen. Tonight just wasn’t our night.” Lance sighs.
“I guess you can’t win them all.” I bite back a groan. I sound like such a dork. He doesn’t want to talk about losing.
Lance chuckles. “Gwen?”
“Yeah?”
“I didn’t call to talk about the game.” There’s amusement in his deep voice.
“You didn’t?”
“No.”
“Why did you call?” I ask, voice breathy and soft.
“Because I wanted to hear your voice before bed. Kind of got used to hearing it this last week.”
His admission sends the butterflies in my stomach soaring. “You did?”
“Yeah, I did. It’d be better if I could see your face.” I look down at my PJs. Ratty old NY Public Library T-shirt that used to belong to my ex, and sleep shorts. “Please?”
“Okay,” I relent, slipping under the covers. “But only my face. Don’t go getting any ideas.”
Lance barks a laugh. The rough sound skitters across my skin, giving me goosebumps like the caress of his warm fingers brushing my skin would. “Got it. Only your face.”
The video request pops up, and I switch over.
Oh no. What have I done? I should have said no.
My mouth waters, and the bundle of nerves between my legs pulses with desire at the mere sight of Lance.
He’s lying in bed, bare-chested, on a pile of white, fluffy pillows, looking like a damn magazine ad.
Why does he have to be so freaking hot?
Like, superhero hot. All muscly and tasty.
Lance clears his throat, and my eyes jump from his broad, muscular chest to his blue eyes that dance with mirth.
Same as he’s done every day last week—and completely ignoring how he just busted me drooling over his naked chest—he says, “Tell me about your day.”
Heat burns my cheeks as I push through. “Let’s see, I started off eating breakfast with my grandmother. I call her Juju, and aside from my mom, she’s my favorite person in the whole world. Then, I went to work and stared at spreadsheets until I thought my eyes were going to bleed.”
“Tell me about your grandma.” He places an arm behind his head, and I try not to stare as I imagine biting his juicy bicep like a turkey leg.
He’s making it hard for me to concentrate. Maybe talking about my grandma will kill my lady boner.
“Juju is my grandma on my dad’s side. She’s the perfect mix of no-nonsense, blunt, and sophisticated.”
Lance sits back and listens, letting me tell story after story about her.
He laughs as I recount how she loves to yell at my dead grandfather while pointing at the ground because she believes he’s in hell. “She sounds like fun.”
“She really is.” I chuckle.
Lance yawns, and I glance at the clock. It’s after midnight in New York. “Oh my god, it’s so late. You need to go to bed; you have a game tomorrow. Why did you let me jabber on?”
He shrugs. “I like listening to you.”
“I’m going to feel terrible if you play like crap tomorrow.”
“I won’t play like crap. Besides, I’ve stayed up late after a game before.”
My brain conjures up an unwanted image of Lance with some woman, staying up late together doing things I never want to think about. I make a face. “TMI, mister.”
Lance frowns. “Get that shit out of your head. That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”
I know that’s not what he meant, but I can’t stop my brain from going off on tangents. It’s a side effect of my being an overthinker.
“You’re right. I don’t know why I said that. I’m sorry.”
“No need to be sorry. Just focus on us and on our future.” He casually says our future as if it were already a foregone conclusion. Words escape me, so I nod. “Good. Would it help if I told you that there has been no one else since you?”
“Really?” I squeak. “Not since November?”
We were together one night six months ago. That’s roughly one hundred and eighty-two days, and he hasn’t been with anyone else. I haven’t either, but I’m also not a hot-as-hell baseball player with all the options in the world.
“What can I say? You cast a dry spell on me, little witch.”
Little witch.
The moniker he’s been calling me makes sense now. Something a lot like hope and affection for the gorgeous man on the other end of the line blooms in my chest, making it ache.
Does this mean he was serious about catching me? Because he has feelings for me?
I stare into his mesmerizing eyes, searching for answers. For a hint of understanding about what is happening between us.
All Lance does is smirk.
“Go to bed, Gwen,” Lance drawls.
“Okay,” I answer.
“I’ll call you tomorrow. Same time,” he says with conviction.
“Okay,” I repeat. It’s the only word I can manage, but there are a million on the tip of my tongue, begging to be spoken.
“Night.”
“Night,” I mumble as Lance cuts the call.
Gripping my phone to my chest, I fall back and sigh.
The feelings I developed for Lance all those months ago come roaring back. Not that they ever really went away.
Things are about to get real when he returns home. He’s making his feelings known, and I’m still on the fence.
I’m running out of time. I need to decide whether I can let down my guard and jump headfirst into the unknown with Lance.