Page 5 of The Pitcher’s Proposal

“Perfect. It’s a date.”

She folds her arms, which draws my attention toward the swell of her breasts. “Eating in the same building for work doesn’t count as a date.”

“Fine. Dinner after the game.”

“You have a flight to Atlanta.”

“I’ll have the pilot wait.”

“The team owns the plane.”

“And they love me.”

She shakes her head, failing to restrain a smile. This is our routine. I ask. She refuses. I act devastated. Then I ask again a few days later.

Tonight, though, I’m too tired to leave it there.

I lean closer over the counter. “When are you going to give me the time of day, Dakota?”

Her smile wavers. “I give you plenty of my time.”

“I mean outside this stadium.”

“You’re asking me out right now?”

“I’ve been asking you out for six months.”

“I thought you were joking.”

I really look at her, trying to decide whether she actually means that. A faint flush spreads across her cheeks, but she doesn’t look away.

“Did you really?” I ask.

“You joke about everything.”

“Not everything.”

The noise from the clubhouse continues behind us, but the space between Dakota and me goes still. I could tell her now. I could stop hiding behind the charm and admit I’ve wanted her since the second Marissa introduced us. I could tell her that I look for her in every room, that I know which days she wears her hair down, and that every woman who’s tried to catch my attention this season has been wasting her time.

Before I can decide how much truth to give her, Dakota glances toward the television mounted in the corner. The postgame broadcast shows updated standings beneath the commentators.

Something in her expression tells me exactly what she’s thinking. She doesn’t believe we can win the World Series.

“Let’s make a bet,” I say.

Her eyebrows rise. “A bet?”

“If we win the World Series, you go out with me.”

She stares at me. “That’s your bet?”

“One date.”

She smiles, but she looks nervous. “You really think you’re going to win the World Series?”

“I think I’ve got a better chance than you think I do.” I step around the edge of the counter, closing some of the distance between us. “So?”

Her eyes rise to mine. Standing this close emphasizes the size difference between us. I’m six foot five, and Dakota barely reaches my shoulder. The urge to put my hands on her waist and draw her against me is so fucking intense, I can barely stand it.