Page 37 of Third Strike Smitten

She points a warning finger at me. "Be careful."

I grin. "Have dinner with me."

The plane goes quiet, just enough for everyone to stop what they’re doing and stare at the two of us in the middle of the plane.

Isla watches me for a moment too. It’s just long enough to make it look real and long enough to make the guys wonder what she’s going to say. And then she folds her arms.

"Are you asking me out, Haynes?"

I shrug. "Depends."

"On what?"

"Whether you're saying yes."

The smile she fights almost wins.

Almost.

Then she shakes her head with a cute little half grin and says, "Ask me again when I'm not working." And then she keeps walking.

The second she's gone, Brock points at me, and Bishop whispers, “What the fuck”, and Layton beams like a kid in a candy store.

"Dude. You just…you…did you hear yourself?”

“What?”

“You just asked her out.”

“Yeah. So?”

“He likes her,” Carter announces quietly. “I think Killian…likes her. Like, he likes her, likes her."

And for the first time all flight...I don't correct them.

The next evening, I'm standing outside Isla's apartment building, checking my reflection in my phone screen for the third time. I've chosen a black button-down with the sleeves rolled up, dark jeans, and my favorite leather jacket. Casual enough to not look like I'm trying too hard, but put together enough that if someone snaps a photo, I won't look like a slob.

I check my watch and see that I’m five minutes early.

Perfect timing.

When Isla appears at the door, my breath catches in my throat. She's wearing a simple green dress that brings out the color of her eyes, and her bright red locks fall in loose waves around her shoulders. The dress hugs her curves in all the right places, and I suddenly feel underdressed.

"Wow! You clean up nice, Coach," I say, offering her my arm.

She laughs, the sound bright and warm in the evening air. "You don't look so bad yourself, Haynes." She hesitates before slipping her arm through mine. "So, where are you taking me? McDonald's drive-thru?"

I feign offense. "I have standards, thank you very much. And it's a surprise."

I walk her to my car—a black Range Rover that I had detailed this morning specifically for this occasion, which is information I will take to my grave—and open the passenger door for her.

She pauses, looking at the open door and then at me. "Did you just open my door?"

"I did."

"Voluntarily?"

"Don't make it weird."