Page 12 of Elevator Pitch

Even I’m confused. Do I want to kiss her? Am I innocently flirting? Or am I making an ass of myself? And why would I care if I am?

I just lost the granddaddy of championships. Weightier things should fill my head. I might lose my job. I might not be marketable to a new team. I might have to retire. Again.

I’m failing at everything lately.

I clear my throat and drop my gaze back to her hand, concentrating on rubbing her thumb. “Why did you decide to become a writer?”

“It’s something I always wanted to do. I have an active imagination. And at one point, I decided it was time to do something for me.”

There’s more to her story she isn’t saying, but I don’t ask. Instead, I kid her, “Like two men sharing you.”

“Okay, that’s enough of that.” She yanks her hand free from mine, but I chase, catching her fingers before she can fully retreat.

“I’ll drop it.” I pause as I rub my thumb into her palm and her arm quivers. “Ticklish?”

“Maybe.” She giggles.

“I just have one more thing to say about two men—”

She groans and tries to tug her hand away again, but I hold firm.

“I’d never share.”

Her arm stiffens, forcing me to look up at her. “It’s fiction.”

“In reality . . .” I press down on the center of her palm, stroking the lifeline bisecting the middle of her hand. Her arm twitches again. She is ticklish. “I’d never share you.”

“That’s”—She swallows, watching my thumb work over her inner hand—“oddly sweet of you to say.”

She’s sweet.

Then I yawn, wide and large and out of nowhere. Suddenly, my head is heavy, my body weary. I blink as exhaustion hits me like I’ve just run into the ivy wall at Anchor Field. I should excuse myself and head to my room, but I don’t want to leave.

Her room.

Or her.

Not yet.

Unable to stop myself, I scoot down on the bed and extend my arm along the extra pillows beside me. Wiggling my hand, I signify I want her to lay down next to me.

“What are you doing?” She watches me, curious, cautious, but also with a mischievous smile which lights up her face. Her blue eyes dance. She has a playful side, a silly one at that. She’s passionate and talks with her hands a lot. That old video seems to embody her personality. Watching her reaction to the moment, her face turned a pretty shade of pink, hinting at both her embarrassment and the potential of a crush on me back then.

I pat the bed. “Lie down.”

Her brows pinch once, the crease deep with concern. A second passes, and I brace for her to kick me to the curb. I’m actually holding my breath.

Then, she shifts, hesitantly folding down to her side, nestling her neck against my arm until I tug her closer to me, hooking her into my side so her head rests on my shoulder.

She places a hand on my belly and smooths over the material of my sweatshirt. “This isn’t very comfortable.”

The athletic shirt is waterproof and wind resistant, and the fabric is slippery. I sit upward, taking Vee with me, and reach for the back of my collar. In the reflection of the blank television screen, I see Vee dig her teeth into her lower lip while she watches me. Her gaze is appraising, appreciative even, of the muscle mass I still maintain. I tug the outerwear over my head and toss the sportswear toward the ottoman. Then, I kick off my shoes. They fall off the edge of the bed with a thud.

“Anchors,” she whispers when I settle onto my back again and she reads the logo on the tee I have on. The one beneath the outerwear.

Vee remains propped up, her gaze running the length of my extended arm, taking in the tattoos that decorate my former pitching powerhouse. Quickly, she snags her eyes away and runs her hand over my chest, across the logo of my former team on my tee. Wearing the apparel of an opposing team could get me canned. Hell, I probably will be sacked. However, this shirt is also my lucky tee, and in baseball we have serious superstitions. I wore this worn thing the night the Chicago Anchors won the championship when I was their all-star pitcher. When my life imploded once before, and baseball had been my savior.

“Don’t tell anyone,” I hush.