Page 37 of Elevator Pitch

He lifts his glass and sniffs the contents before swirling the dark liquid around inside the glass. “I’ve been known to enjoy the finer things in life.” His gaze meets mine again, smoldering a second, before he chuckles and then taps his glass to mine even though it isn’t in my hands. “To winning.”

He sips his wine, closing his eyes and humming at the taste. I lift my glass and take a hearty gulp, knowing I’ll pay later for this late-night drink. The peppery flavor tickles my throat and instantly relaxes me.

“What else do I seem like?” he asks, lowering his glass to the countertop. He helps himself to one of the two stools beneath the counter on the living room side. I remain standing in the kitchen.

“A man who’d hang out with movie stars and models, speaking of the finer things in life.”

His gaze drops to his glass, one hand holding the bulbous goblet and slowly shifting the glass side-to-side so the contents slosh lazily around the glass. His lowered lids have me questioning if I’ve somehow hurt his feelings. Maybe he’s missing Chandler. She should be his lucky charm.

Ross clears his throat. “You mentioned last night that your husband cheated on you.”

The statement is like a stab to my heart. Perhaps I deserve it after what I’ve said about him.

“And I’m wondering . . . what happened?” He lifts his gaze. “How could he do such a thing to you?”

Genuine concern filters beneath the question. Almost as if he can’t believe someone would do that to me. That someone being my husband.

“It was a long time ago,” I state, preparing to brush off this soul-baring conversation. “And I guess none of it matters now.” The affair ended. Cameron apologized. He is gone. My attitude wasn’t so simplistic, but there wasn’t any use dwelling on the past infraction even if it caused me to have major trust issues and trouble committing to someone else. Definitely a reason why most dates never made it past the first one.

And yet, here Ross Davis sits across from me for the fourth or fifth time.

He nods once, lowering his gaze again, then lifting his glass for another sip. Setting his wine back on the counter, he says, “So tell me what you did today? Did you write?”

“Tell me about the win,” I deflect because his day was much more productive than mine.

“Did you watch the game?” His voice is hopeful as he peers back at my face. His eyes brighten. He chews his lower lip, like he’s anxious about my answer.

Slowly, I smile. “I did watch. Very exciting, Coach. Ford Sylver’s catch and then the double play to second . . .” I whistle low, expressing how impressed I am by the Anchors’ star center fielder.

Ross shakes his head, his expression sobering. “Yeah, but I’m worried about him.”

“Because of his ex?”

Ross’s brows hitch. “Because of his arm.”

“Oh.” I lift my glass, taking another pull of the flavorful wine.

“What do you know about his ex-wife?” Ross tilts his head.

“Only what social media tells me.”

Ross’s hand stills, where he’d been twirling his glass again. He looks up at me, eyes earnest. “Please don’t believe everything you see or read in those spaces.”

Our eyes lock on one another for a moment before the intensity becomes too much and I pull away. “Okay.” I know better than to believe in sensationalism. Real people are behind most tabloid rumors.

Ross clears his throat again and sits straighter on the stool, sliding his hands across the countertop to extend his arms. With the length of them, his hands come to either side of mine, where one holds my wineglass, the other is clenched loosely on the countertop. His thumb runs down the knuckles of my fist, and I flatten my hand on the cool surface.

Ross takes my hand and begins massaging my fingers. Starting with my pinky, he kneads and tugs at the length, like he did the night we met, like he did last night. The sensation is like he’s pulling the tension out of me, one finger at a time. With my eyes fixated on his hand, I concentrate on how good his touch feels.

He says, “So now . . . Tell me about your day. Did you write?”

“Oh, we don’t need to talk about that.” I chuckle, the sound a bit bitter, maybe defensive. More likely deflection.

“Why not?” Ross stills, forcing me to look up at him.

I shrug. Cameron wasn’t ever interested in my writing, and the subject became one to avoid. Not difficult to do when the topic hardly came up. However, Cameron was not upset to see that first deposit in our bank account after my initial publication.

The other reason not to discuss my writing is because I’m currently stumped. Again.