Page 46 of Elevator Pitch

“You’re very grumpy tonight for a man who won today.”

“Sent my jacket to a woman in the stands and she ducked out early from the game.”

“Oh. And that woman was so appreciative of the jacket. Now that was a sweet gesture.” She smiles, her voice shifting, softening. She wasn’t offended by the gift of season tickets, but she looked a little put off by them. Maybe she was hurt by the presentation. Or maybe my gift should have been more personal.

She wasn’t specifically helping the team, but more so helping me. By sleeping with me.

Maybe Kip was right. Am I out of touch with what women want? All I really care about is what Vee might want. What she needs. And my presentation should have been more thoughtful. Something that expressed more of my gratitude for her and what she’s doing for me by playing along with my superstition.

“Speaking of your jacket, let me get it for you.” She rounds the counter for the living room.

Shifting on the stool, I catch her wrist as she nears me. “Is there a rush?” She seems eager to get me out of here tonight.

Her head lowers, eyes aimed where my hand cuffs her wrist, my thumb gently rubbing the inner skin over her pulse point. “You don’t need to spend the night tonight. You didn’t spend the night last night and you won today.” Her head lifts and our eyes meet. “I think that proves the experiment isn’t necessary.”

Panic hits like a hundred-mile-an-hour hit to the elbow, pain radiating over my limbs. I sense Vee is pulling away, about to end our arrangement. And if that happened, I might never see her again.

Shaking my head, I argue. “You were at the game today, though. And we won.”

She sighs. “So what you’re saying is now I need to start attending all the games, both here and back home?” She chuckles but the sound is strained.

Would it be selfish to say cancel any pre-scheduled plans that conflict with those home games? Probably. How about no fucking dates allowed? Yeah, that wouldn’t be right either.

“We haven’t talked about the regular season yet,” I remind her.

“I don’t think we need to go there yet,” she counters.

But we both know, time is ticking, and the calendar dates are getting crossed off on our stay in Arizona, both hers and the Anchors.

“Let’s just take it night by night then?” I lower my voice, noticing a quiver in it. A vulnerability I don’t want her hearing. I’m not ready to say goodbye to her.

“You weren’t paying much attention at the game,” I state next, wanting to shift topics, but also curious what held her interest as she clearly wasn’t attentively observing the team. Why go to a game if she isn’t interested? Then again, I recall her telling me about the atmosphere and margaritas.

She shrugs again, lowering her head, and I realize I’m still holding her wrist. With my foot, I drag the other stool forward, away from the overhanging counter, then pat the seat with my free hand.

Vee slides onto the seat, facing me, and I bracket my legs on either side of her knees. Again with my foot, I draw the stool closer to me, wedging her between my spread thighs.

“I was writing.” Vee reaches for her wineglass and sips.

“Really?” I arch one brow, both surprised and pleased that she found inspiration during the game. Then my expression folds and I bitterly chuckle. “Not two men again, I hope.”

“A whole team of players,” she chides, then she bursts out laughing and points at me. “You should see your face.”

I grab her finger and squeeze. “Not fucking funny,” I mutter. Then I lower her hand, massaging her finger like I’ve done before, tugging at the short length, and kneading along the fine bones.

Vee’s gaze drops. “That feels so nice.”

“You type all day, right?”

“Well, not all day.” She chokes on a strangled laugh. “In fact, not most days, until recently.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve been struggling to write. For months,” she emphasizes. “Publishing is a hard industry. Everyone is looking for the next great thing to write. What plot sells? What do readers want? What fits best with my brand?”

Her eyes don’t leave where I’m massaging her hand. “The first game I attended alone, inspiration struck. Might not be a best seller. Might be a plot already told. Might not even be what readers want.” She scoffs.

“But it’s a story. A romantic one, at that.” Her voice lulls, offering another wistful sigh mingling with secret wonder. Like she’s both pleased and surprised at the romantic nature of her own storytelling.