Chapter 47
Chapter Forty-Seven
Savannah
When we board the plane to fly back to Atlanta, Brayden stakes out the same cluster of seats we sat in on our way out. Asher gets on after us, and he almost walks past to claim another seat when Brayden reaches and casually loops a finger in his sweatshirt hoodie to haul him back.
“You want something, B?” Asher asks, eyes dancing with the question.
“No.” Brayden says it curtly like he’s trying to announce to his teammates how very much we all didn’t sleep together for the last two nights.
I have on an oversized sweatshirt that doesn’t quite hide the hickeys they left, mouths overlapping, claiming me as theirs. I stash my carryon, take a seat next to Brayden and across from Asher. Our usual spots. Even if we’re the only ones who know.
After the plane takes off, Brayden drapes an arm around my shoulders. “Aren’t you going to study?”
I should. I need to. I’ve felt like I’ve been in an entirely different universe for the past few days, one that doesn’t contain mundane things like the scientific literature.
Sighing, I pull my papers from my bag, flip to the one I’ve been putting off.
I read it or try to. Some of this has gotten easier—I’m more accustomed to the analysis and the jargon used in various methods sections—and some of it definitely hasn’t.
Is it me or is this paper written like it doesn’t want to be read?
Brayden strokes my neck, playing with a strand of my hair. Across from me, Asher is dividing his time between reading a paperback and looking at us when he thinks we’re not paying attention.
“You still limiting screen time?” I ask him.
His forehead pinches momentarily until he realizes I’m talking about his book. “No, just brought this for the trip.” He nods to the pile of papers on my lap. “How’re the articles?”
“Dense. How’s the book?”
He holds it up. A novel with a worn spine like it’s a favorite. On its cover, a woman in a warrior gown wields a ghostly sword at an unseen foe. “Less dense.”
“I’d thought you would go for something more literary.”
He snorts. “Smart for a ballplayer doesn’t actually mean smart.”
Next to me, Brayden laughs. “So if I haven’t read a book in…” He pauses as if calculating. “A while, what does that make me?”
“You have other talents.” Asher scrapes his eyes over him, heated. Obvious for the team plane. Around us, most everyone is sleeping.
From a few rows away, someone sticks their face above the seat head rest. At this distance—and wearing a team sweatshirt with the hood pulled up—it’s impossible to tell who it is.
Even if I could see them, ballplayers are sometimes difficult to identify when they’re not wearing shirts with their names written across the back.
Is it because we’re being loud? Or is it because they’ve noticed Asher and Brayden are suddenly no longer at each other’s throats? Or is it because…
We were discreet at the hotel. Mostly discreet. When I’d come out of Asher’s room in the morning, the only person I saw was the hotel housekeeper. We’re being careful. Or at least I think we’re being careful, which is an entirely different thing.
Still, I tuck myself closer to Brayden, kiss his cheek for good measure, trying to convince whoever’s looking at us not just that we’re interested in one another but that we’re only interested in one another and no one else.
Either way, Brayden is smiling at me, at Asher, maybe at the general state he’s in.
It’s possible this is the first time I’ve seen him truly, uncomplicatedly happy.
Whoever was looking our way sinks back into their seat. It’s possible I was imagining the whole thing in the first place. A trick of my imagination, paranoia about what happened to Victoria a few months ago. That must be it. I’m sure of it.
Back at the ballpark, we’re loading our luggage into Brayden’s truck when Asher wheels his suitcase by, clearly about to do the same in his own vehicle. “Should we…” Brayden cups my cheek, leans close, our bodies slotting together, then he breathes in my ear, “invite him over?”
I flush involuntarily at the nearness of Brayden’s body to mine. At the heat that’s been pooling in my belly for the past few days. I nod.
Brayden kisses my hair, a little nothing of a kiss. No, a married kind of kiss, the kind we’ve spent the past few months playacting that now comes naturally. “Hey, Asher,” he calls across the parking lot, “are you supposed to be driving with your head all scrambled?”
“My head’s fine, B.”
“You sure? We could give you a ride home.”
“You don’t need to—” Asher begins, then must hear what Brayden is actually asking him. “Huh, yeah, maybe that would be good.”
We have to reposition our suitcases in the back of Brayden’s truck to make everything fit. But eventually, it all does.