Page 48 of Elevator Pitch

He accepts the cup but lowers his head, thumb running around the ridge of the cap. “I’ve been thinking.”

This sounds like another dangerous idea. “Okay.”

“And I promise this will be the last time I ask.”

Oh, God. What now?

“But about that two men sharing one woman thing—”

“Jesus,” I hiss, digging my fingers into my hair and holding the length against the back of my neck a second. “Look, I don’t expect you to understand.” My tone is defensive while I wave up and down before his body. “Because you’re you.”

His thick brows lift. His thumb stops rotating on the coffee lid. “What does that mean?”

“You’re a beautiful man.” Exasperation wrestles with my defensiveness.

His cheeks tinge pink while shock registers in his eyes, and then his brows crease. “And you don’t think you’re a beautiful woman?”

“I’m not saying I’m not.” But my expression surely says I don’t think I am. “It’s about feeling beautiful. Feeling desirable.” I’m pretty certain we covered this concept the first time I told him about my possible plot line, but maybe he needs the refresher.

“By two men at once?”

“By anyone!” My voice crackles with frustrated tears I don’t wish to shed in front of him.

Maybe a beautiful man doesn’t get it because he is desirable. He’s had sex with beautiful women.

“You’re a beautiful woman, Vee. And anyone who doesn’t see it, doesn’t deserve you.”

I sigh. Now, he’s placating me. Giving me compliments like I was fishing for one. I don’t need this, and I step left, intending to open my front door and practically kick him out.

Only he catches my wrist and tugs me toward him. Stumbling over my own feet, I collide with his chest, then his hand is cupping my jaw, and he leans toward me.

When his mouth makes contact with mine, I’m so surprised I immediately pull back. Our eyes lock on each other’s before his gaze drops to my lips again.

Then, he kisses me.

Full on, lips on lips. His hand moves to cup the back of my head. My fingers fist in his shirt.

I’m kissing Ross Davis. And it is heavenly. Divine. Spiritual and inspirational and . . .

He pulls back. “I probably shouldn’t have—”

“I don’t know that this—”

His mouth cuts me off again, swallowing my agreement, dismissing the fact that this probably isn’t a good idea.

What is good, though, is this kiss. The connection of our mouths. His lips full but tender. The scruff around them tickling. His fingers fist tighter in my hair. He sips at me like I’m that liquid-gold jolt he needs to brighten his day. Then his tongue dives inward and I’m up on my toes, tugging him closer to me.

However, when his other arm comes around my back, and a travel mug hits me in the lower spine are we reminded of who we are, where we are, or perhaps, what we shouldn’t be doing.

We break apart again.

With shock in each of our eyes, we stare at one another a beat. My heart races, as does his beneath his shirt, which I’m still clutching with tight fingers. Like I want to tear the covering off him or curl underneath it or just draw him closer to me again.

Finally, he speaks. “I should probably go.”

“Yep.” I release his shirt like I’m dropping a hot pan of cookies. The burn hurts. The cookies ruined. I step back and swallow hard, still tasting his minty tongue against mine. Still feeling his lips as if imprinted with mine.

“Good luck today, Coach.”