Chapter 8
My shoulders ache. Muscles that I haven’t used in months throb as I pull my car into the best spot on the street and put it in Park. The spot could realistically fit two cars, but I’m not in the mood to care that I’m parked like a jackass right now.
Being away from home so often is by far the worst part of this job.
My family is close, and I miss them when I’m gone, even if my mother doesn’t hesitate to spam me with calls and FaceTime requests that usually feature a close-up of the inside of Dad’s nose.
Talking over the phone isn’t the same as seeing each other in person.
I’d never trade this career for anything, but it still fucking sucks sometimes.
The street is jam-packed this afternoon as everyone jumps at the chance to bathe under the scorching sun.
I peer through the tinted lenses of my sunglasses at a group of guys passing my car.
One of them pushes the shoulder of another, and they all turn to look at a table full of women as they sit outside Blank Page and sip on smoothies.
The tallest one has a build like a string bean, and I can’t help but glance at his knees, wondering how they hold him up as he calls out to the table.
“Got room for one more?”
Slowly, all three women turn and look at him, their disinterest so obvious it yanks a laugh from my chest. I tap the window control, waiting before rolling it up.
But instead of speaking, the women collectively raise their middle fingers at the group of guys. I lick my teeth as I grin and roll the window up. They remind me of Brielle and Aubrey, though the latter would have tossed her smoothie at them for good measure rather than turn her back again.
Maybe that’s why Finn’s so goo-goo over her. She’s a spitfire. I remember being terrified of her the first time we met when Finn joined the team.
Quinn would fit right in with them.
Dislodging that thought, I turn the car off and throw my door open. The late-afternoon sun warms the back of my neck as I step out and lock the doors twice.
I’m here later than I usually am. That’s partially because I only got back to Vancouver two hours ago, but also because I wasn’t sure if I should even come today. Not after the guys spent the last week giving me a hard time about how desperate I’ve been acting.
It’s not the first time they’ve given me a hard time about Quinn, but this time . . . I couldn’t help but agree with them. At least a little.
I’ve been coming here so often that the fans have staked the place out, knowing with ninety-nine percent certainty that they’re going to run into me one time or another.
Most of them know about the rumours that have infiltrated the media surrounding me and my dating life, and I worry it’s only a matter of time before they connect the dots I’ve made way too fucking obvious.
There’s only one reason I come here every day that I’m in town, and it’s obviously not the coffee.
Blowing out a breath, I ignore the groups of people on the patio and tug the door harder than necessary. My face is pretty shielded by the sunglasses and hat that I’ve kept facing forward, so I force myself to relax a bit as I walk inside.
The scent hits me immediately, and I school my features to hide my initial reaction. It’s grown on me after all these months. Though it does hide the scent of Quinn’s perfume a bit too much. Without sniffing at her like a horny dog, I’m usually left disappointed.
At first, I don’t see her behind the counter. Disappointment hits me square in the chest, making it feel a bit too tight. Eli’s here again, but Callie isn’t. Neither of those observations surprises me.
The chatter of conversation is so loud it’s nearly uncomfortable as I linger beside the small counter meant to collect dirty cups and plates.
All the tables are full right now. A few of the customers are typing away on laptops or holding books beneath their noses, while the rest are talking at a mile a minute, fully engaged with each other.
It’s overwhelming, but not in a bad way. I can see the appeal in coming to a place like this. Somewhere warm and humming with a softness that never seems to disappear, day or night. It has a way of calming the soul. At least, that’s what it does to me.
“Have you been secretly seeking a job?”
My skin ripples beneath the light touch on my forearm. I drop my gaze, my gaze burning into the pale fingers touching me. The heat burning through my flesh is enough to have my cock twitching in my briefs before I look at who I know is behind this visceral reaction.
I struggle to stabilize my breathing when I dip my chin and peer past my shoulder. Quinn’s blue-grey gaze sparkles with the softest hint of humour as her brow lifts in a silent question.
She still hasn’t let go of me.
“Is that a no?” she asks, tone prodding.
My palms are sweating. There’s something swelling in my throat, cutting off my airway. She taps a singular finger to my wrist and releases me. Instantly, I can breathe again. The first pull of air into my lungs burns, like I haven’t been breathing at all.
The humour is snuffed out of her eyes as they go carefully dull. “Are you . . . okay?”
“Yep. Yeah, I’m good.” I clear my throat and shove my hands into my pockets. “It’s busy.”
“You don’t like crowds?”
The way she asks it makes me feel out of place. Judged, even. It’s not a new sensation. People have judged me my entire life, and they judged me even more after I joined the MLB. She can do it all she wants.
I have no problem with proving her every impression of me wrong.
“Why would I like them?” I counter.
“I assumed you were used to them.”
“I am.”
She purses her lips. “So?”
“So what?”
It’s impossible not to smile at her annoyance. The pressure in my groin continues to grow as I get harder, feeling the opposite of intimidated by her snippy attitude.
“So, if you hate them, I would expect that makes your job complicated. It’s a miracle I haven’t watched you get swarmed in here.”
“Worried about me, gorgeous?” I purr.
She narrows her eyes, pushing out a grumbled sigh. “You’re standing in my way. Unless you’re planning on taking these dishes to the back and washing them, you’ll need to move.”
I turn and begin stacking the pale yellow and green coffee cups. Once they get as high as I can comfortably carry without dropping and shattering them, I set them on top of the plates and start toward the back of the building. A beat later, I hear footsteps behind me and let my smile grow.
“That wasn’t a serious suggestion. You’re not going to wash those,” she argues, catching up to me.
“It sure feels like I am.”
“I’m not going to pay you.”
“I don’t want your money.”
I come to an abrupt stop when she slides in front of me and stares wide-eyed at the cups that shake briefly at the motion. Exasperated, she circles her fingers around both of my wrists and stabilizes them, putting a stop to the rattling glass.
My pulse skips as I once again lower my gaze to where we touch. Desire darkens the edges of my vision, forcing me to bite down on my tongue before I say anything that’s going to put a stop to this rare moment. Because fuck, I love her hands on me.
“What are you trying to do here? Is your plan to soften me up so you can swoop in and trick me into going out with you? Because I don’t know what you want from me, but I know it isn’t a relationship,” she attacks, deep red staining her plump cheeks.
“You seem to have a lot of opinions when it comes to me, Quinny.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Do you have something else you’d prefer, then?”
“Yes. My name. Quinn. There’s no ‘nee’ attached to it.”
I cock my head. “Do you fight everyone as hard as you fight me, or am I just that special?”
She blinks at me, struggling to school her expression. I poke my tongue to my cheek to keep from laughing when she spins on her heels and storms ahead of me. There’s not a single moment of hesitation as I follow her, cutting the same path around the counter and through the swinging back door.
The room I enter is completely unknown to me. I halt just past the door and look around, taking in the sight of what I always suspected was a kitchen. The confirmation makes my chest puff a bit.
“The sink is right there,” Quinn snaps, drawing my attention again.
My eyes snap to hers like magnets. The way she’s clutching those flared hips and somehow staring down her nose at me despite being almost a foot shorter tightens my chest. I want to free my hands of all these dishes and hold her instead, even just once.
The lack of physical contact I’ve had these last four months has broken me.
“You better get started,” she adds, her tone barbed.
I absorb every word and reluctantly look away from her. The sink is filling quickly with rising bubbles, thick with a sharp lemon scent. I watch the steaming water run from the faucet and then notice the hot pink rubber gloves folded over the edge of the sink.
“I didn’t take you for a pink girl.”
“What makes you think you know anything about me?”
I can hardly contain the excitement that expands inside of me at the prospect of learning more.
“Tell me what I should know, then.”
“No.”
“I was being honest when I said I didn’t want your money. But that doesn’t mean I don’t want something. We can consider this an even exchange. I clean as many dishes as you can find me, and after I’m finished, you tell me something about yourself.”
“I didn’t ask you to do this for me. You chose to take on the task all by yourself,” she says, too fucking right.
“Do you want me to beg?”
“I doubt you even know how.”
Instead of throwing these dishes across the room, I slowly lower them into the scorching water, feeling the heat against my skin. “Want to bet?”
Swivelling to face her, I reach behind me to grip the edge of the steel sink and let her see the honesty in my gaze.
I have nothing to hide here, and we both know it.
Coming to this place, talking to her, and constantly pushing for an in—no matter how small—is completely optional.
This self-imposed celibacy I’ve been keeping since coming into this place for the first time could have ended at any time.
I didn’t decide to do it because I thought it would gain me points with a woman who has never wanted anything to do with me.
It happened all on its own because I haven’t been able to stop thinking about her, despite the frozen shoulder she continues to give me and the hell I get from my friends.
I’m a self-declared stalker. A professional athlete who used to spend every night in a different bed just because he could and now hasn’t so much as contemplated sleeping in one that isn’t mine.
Begging her to tell me one small fact about herself wouldn’t kill me. If anything, I think I’d even enjoy it.
I let her see how badly I want the information she’s been refusing to give because the worst thing she can do is tell me to leave. It wouldn’t be the first time, and I know without a doubt it won’t be the last.
“I have a younger sister. She’s studying to be a surgeon.”
While the information isn’t surprising, it’s the way her eyes have grown wide and those smooth cheeks have deepened in colour again that has me slow to respond. It’s almost like she’s . . . embarrassed to tell me that. Even if I already knew who Callie is to her.
Surely, she knew that.
“I’ll let that pass this time,” I start, stroking the rubber gloves with my knuckle before pinching them and pulling them to rest against my thigh. “But next time, I want you to tell me something about you.”
“That was about me.”
“Not completely.”
She flicks her eyes away and glares at the first of two ovens. When she looks back at me, it’s with her emotions tucked safely away, completely hidden. “I’ll be back with more dishes for you.”
“I’ll be waiting,” I drone, smirking.
With a soft huff, she leaves, and I watch her every step of the way, completely infatuated with her.
Yeah . . . stalker seems like a pretty spot-on description.