Page 82 of Elevator Pitch

“Me, too.” She chuckles softly. “Think the Anchors will win tomorrow.”

My brows pinch. I don’t like her doubt, and I know that I’ve done that to her.

“That’s not what tonight was about.” This was so much more. She trusted me to have this experience with her over the phone. I wanted to help her find inspiration, and I’m fucking thrilled she’s in my home, beneath my sheets, taking her pleasure with me.

She doesn’t respond to my comment, and I wish we’d video chatted. I need to see her face, but I don’t press. Instead, we say goodnight after she wishes me good luck for tomorrow’s game.

And when the Anchors win the next night, I try not to let guilt, or superstition, seize my chest.

Chapter 27

[Vee]

After waking up in Ross’s bed for the third night in a row, and a final win against Milwaukee, making the series 2-1 in favor of the Anchors, I enter Ross’s kitchen wearing one of his T-shirts.

Ross’s home is incredible. He lives in a neighborhood where older homes have been restored to their original glory with modern amenities. His red-brick home is three stories tall and, like many classic homes in the city, it’s narrow but long from front to back. He doesn’t have much of a front yard or back but has professional landscaping with some seasonal flowers in the green mix.

His kitchen contains a huge island with four plush bar stools that face a large state-of-the-art set of industrial appliances and dark cabinets, and it’s a favorite spot of mine in the house. From my position, seated at the end of the countertop, morning sunlight streams into the space from an Eastern window. In this location, I’m inspired to write.

After our night of sexy talk, I woke with a burst of energy and some new material for my stagnant manuscript. Last night after the final game, the Anchors traveled, so Ross and I only exchanged text messages while the team headed to another state.

With my tea prepared, I take a seat at the stool I’ve staked as mine and open my laptop.

Something causes me to look up. A flicker of movement in the corner of my eye before I glance up and squeak, jiggling my tea mug and drippling some of the hot liquid onto my hand. Quickly setting down the mug with a shaky thunk, I meet equally the startled gaze of a bare-chested college-aged boy standing at the opposite end of the island.

“Who are you?”

“Who are you?” I parrot, noticing the young man is only wearing a pair of boxer briefs. I don’t need to clarify if this young man belongs to Ross. With dark blonde hair and bright blue eyes, he’s exactly what I’d envision a younger Ross Davis to look like.

“I asked you first,” he counters.

“Fair point,” I reply, considering I should stand and offer my hand as way of introduction. Then think twice as I’m only wearing a T-shirt that belongs to this kid’s father.

“I’m Verona Huxley,” I state, using the open laptop as a shield. “A friend of your dad’s.”

The kid tilts his head. “You’re older than his typical friends.” Air quotes are implied in his exaggeration, and I should be offended on multiple counts. Implying I’m old; assuming I’m a certain type; labeling me as that kind of friend.

Clearing my throat, ignoring the lump in it, I state, “I’m not that kind of friend. And I prefer to consider myself as mature or seasoned.” I tip my head and angle my gaze toward the ceiling. “Maybe delicately aged? Prime aged? In my prime?” I turn back to Ross’s son and wave my hand. “Anyway, which son are you?”

“I’m Harley.”

Silence falls between us a second before I say, “Your dad hadn’t mentioned anyone would be here.”

Harley tips up one bushy brow. His expression mirrors his father before he narrows his eyes. “Are you staying here?”

“I—” Suddenly, I felt excessively guilty that I’ve made myself at home in Ross’s house for a few nights and used the setting of his kitchen as my writing space. I close my laptop, prepared to leave the residence once Harley leaves the kitchen, as I’m not going to walk around in only an extra-long T-shirt in front of Ross’s son.

Harley watches as the laptop snaps shut. He steps closer to the large island, cell phone in his hand.

“I won’t tell if you don’t tell.”

I chuckle at how quickly he wants to manipulate this situation. “Shouldn’t you be concerned that a strange woman is in your dad’s home?” Then again, does this happen often? Only last fall, Ross might have brought Chandler here.

Harley shakes his head. “Dad never brings his friends around. I only met Chandler Bressler once, and that was outside the house.”

He might be trying to make me feel better, but I don’t.

“I’m sorry,” I reply not certain what else to say to him.