Page 45 of Elevator Pitch

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As romantic gestures go, presenting a woman with season tickets to the Chicago Anchors might not rank up there for some.

“That’s a sweet gesture,” Vee says half-heartedly once she lets me into her place and I present her the tickets.

For her service to the team, I’d said.

I’d sent a text before arriving unannounced and asked if I could stop by with something for her. I didn’t want to intrude on any plans she might have this evening.

“But I don’t need them,” she continues, glancing up at me as we stand in the entry area. She hasn’t invited me further into her place when I’d really like to finish that bottle of wine we started the other night, and talk.

Maybe she emptied the bottle with her plans last night.

“My dad was an avid fan. I can’t remember if I told you that before.”

I couldn’t either as I was too focused on her eyes. The blue soft yet sparkling, like the flicker of holiday lightbulbs. Her mouth is coated in a pink gloss. Freckles sprinkle her cheeks as if she has recently been in the sun when today had been gloomy and cloudy.

She’s pretty. Adorably pretty. Enticingly pretty.

“Anyway, he often took me to the games.” She shrugs. “It was a special time for us. Like a date with Dad moment.” She wistfully sighs in recall, while the memories cinch her forehead a second, like an ache exists in remembering such sacred times. “He took my girls to games as well, giving them precious memories, too. So, when he passed away, I couldn’t let the tradition go. I took over his lottery spot, claiming the tickets in his memory. So, I have season tickets.”

I’m caught between stunned that she has an entire season worth of tickets and relieved that this means I’ll continue to see her. Not that we’d gotten to that particular discussion point in the experiment. The what’s next moment. But still, she’ll be around the stadium once we return to Chicago.

I also feel a little stupid, thinking I was offering her something special, when she already has season tickets and loads of memories mingled with them.

I slip the certificate I had printed which explained how she could claim her tickets back into my pocket, and we stare at one another a minute.

“So, you’ll be at all the home games, then?”

“Well, not all of them. If I have plans, or my girls can’t use the tickets, we sell them. Try to recoup a little bit of the cost.” She grimaces, expressing her dislike of the rising ticket prices.

“Plans, huh?” I grunt.

When she doesn’t respond or ask me to stick around, I invite myself to stay. “Want to finish that bottle of wine from the other night?” I arch one brow and slowly smile at my memory of us. Then my voice hardens. “Unless you finished it with your date last night.”

“I didn’t say I had a date last night.” Her voice rises in surprise, eyes widening as her hands come to her hips.

“You said you had plans.” But I can read between the lines, even if the lines seem to be blurring a little bit.

“I did have plans. I went to dinner with an author friend who lives in the area.” She tilts her head. “Why would you think I had a date?”

I lower my head, pursing my lips then twisting them, debating if I should answer honestly or not.

“I just thought plans meant you had a date, but you didn’t want to tell me.” And I didn’t like the idea of you having a date.

“Why wouldn’t I tell you?” Her tone suggests this is a legit question. “Furthermore, why would it matter?”

I feel her gaze on me, but I can’t look up at her. I’m being unfair, selfish even, but then I lift my head and answer honestly, “Because I don’t want to share you.”

Her sweet mouth pops open before she clamps her lips back together a second. Then she speaks, “You aren’t sharing me. We’re only sleeping together.”

The statement sounds so absurd, the argument exact, that we both laugh, scattering the tension between us and loosening the pressure on my shoulders. I hadn’t realized how tense I was over the idea of her having a date.

“How about that wine?” I nod toward her kitchen, and she leads the way, taking her spot inside the kitchen while I help myself to a stool on the living room side of the counter. She pours us each a glass and slides one closer to me.

“I just want to clarify, that if I had a date, I’d say date. And me saying I have plans, in order not to attend a home game, would also be exactly what I mean. Pre-scheduled or last-minute plans. If I had a date, I might bring him to a game.” She lifts her glass, drinking a hearty sip of wine, while glaring at me over the rim of the stemless glassware.

I growl, upset at the thought when I have no right to be worked up.