Page 19 of Moonshot

“Shh,” I hissed, and his eyes lifted to mine. Our seats suddenly felt too close, the side of my knee against his.

“You just said you don’t know anything about dogs,” he whispered.

“So?”

“So stop telling me what I should do with mine.”

“He belongs at your mom’s house,” I whispered back, our eyes still connected, our arms now touching as we hunched together, over the center console.

“Do you have any idea how beautiful you are?” he said, the words husky, his hand moving forward to cup—

I leaned back, needing air. Possibly a soda. Maybe I was dehydrated. Something was wrong; I was too flushed, too hot in this space, my skin jumping against itself, the twist and pull of right versus wrong, kissing him versus not … we couldn’t do this again.

“Were you about to kiss me?” I accused, my whisper forgotten, my voice too loud, and he looked around in warning.

“Watch it,” he snapped.

“Were you?”

“I don’t know.” He sat back in his chair. “What if I was?”

“You can’t kiss me again.”

“Why not?”

“I just…” My eyes darted front, my dad in shouting distance. “Don’t.”

“You know, most girls, if their dad tells them to stay away from someone, they do the opposite.”

“And most guys avoid jailbait.”

“I’m avoiding you.”

“Doesn’t seem like it.”

He watched me closely, his direct eye contact something that twisted my stomach into knots. “We’re friends.”

Friends. I didn’t have a lot of experience with friendship, but I was pretty sure this wasn’t it. “You kiss all your friends?”

The corner of his mouth turned up. “When they have a mouth like yours.”

I snorted. “Please.” Did he mean it? Had he been as affected as I was by our kiss?

He kept his eyes on me. “You think you know me, Little League?”

I considered the question. “I know enough.”

His mouth twisted in a mocking smile.

“I do,” I pressed. “Honestly. It’s embarrassing my level of Chase Stern trivia.” I waved him on. “Go ahead. Quiz me.”

“You know what’s been written about me. That’s not me.”

“You love to do interviews. That tells me something.” Dad never did press, despite every attempt by the Yankees to push him into the spotlight. Nineteen years in the Majors, and I’d never once seen him sit down with a reporter. Chase had them trailing him like groupies. Dad once said that a man who sat down and spilled his soul to strangers didn’t have much of a soul to protect.

“I have a brand. I feed it.” He tossed up the ball and caught it. “Try again.”

I jabbed harder. “I know you make some stupid decisions.”