Total pages in book: 26
Estimated words: 24270 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 121(@200wpm)___ 97(@250wpm)___ 81(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 24270 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 121(@200wpm)___ 97(@250wpm)___ 81(@300wpm)
Like he can’t wait to buy me a glass of the city’s finest tap water.
Funny, but I can’t wait either.
But when we reach the sidewalk, Josh shoves his hands in his pockets, some of that eagerness vanishing. The streets are coated in February slush; I’m so ready to head to Florida and start the season. Or to see Josh shirtless on a beach, covered in sunscreen and Florida sand.
“You don’t have to get a drink if you don’t want to,” he says.
A one-eighty from how he was upstairs, but maybe that’s the endorphins wearing off. Maybe out here in the real world, he’s regretting . . . something. I smile because anything else will give away my disappointment. Still, I want him to know the score. “I don’t say yes to things I don’t want to do,” I say, eyes locked with his.
Josh’s face goes through a series of expressions that land on pleased. “I looked up a couple places around here while you were getting changed.”
“Not watching me?”
“I can multitask.”
“Noted.” We’re standing under the awning at the entrance, which is lined with heaters to melt away the snow. It’s warm, but even so, Josh blushes further, a pink tinge to his cheeks that makes me want to kiss him again. Right here. I restrain myself and ask, “Where’d you find?”
“Did you want a beer or a cup of coffee? Or . . . there’s a bunch of places that do fancy tea. If your throat is still sore.”
That makes it my turn to blush, only slightly—not at what he said, but at the memory of minutes ago. Of the way he gasped and came down my throat, how he tasted on my tongue, and the soft look in his eyes after. “Your dick’s not that big, Spencer,” I tease.
Josh shrugs at that, looking smug, like he’s daring me to press the point. “So no tea?”
“I’ll take a drink. If you’re offering.” I check the time on my phone. “Though, fair warning, I’ve got a plane to catch later today.”
His pleased expression fades slightly.
“So,” I add, “you’re gonna have to romance me real fast.” I wink for good measure.
He laughs. “Just because you’re fast on the base paths doesn’t mean you have to be fast everywhere else. Like, say, back at the studio.”
“I didn’t hear you complaining about a damn thing back there,” I tease, though it occurs to me that at some point I ought to make it clear what I mean by romance me. Maybe sooner rather than later.
We end up at a place in Hell’s Kitchen. It’s early enough in the day that the server deposits us in a booth in the back with ice waters, then tells us to order at the bar whenever we’re ready. The place has the look of a refurbished speakeasy, exposed brick and a pressed tin ceiling. It’s nice. Different from most of the places big-leaguers drink.
And this could be the moment for sooner. I drum my fingers on the table, then meet his eyes.
“Is this a date?” Because it feels like a date. Unless it’s a goodbye.
Josh swallows a gulp of ice water. “It doesn’t have to be.”
“I didn’t say I minded,” I say, hoping that gets me closer to an answer. And him too.
“It can be whatever it is,” he says, which doesn’t clear things up either as to whether this is a real date or not.
But maybe that’s not his thing? “When was the last time you went out with someone?” I ask. “Like out-out. Not just a hookup.”
“My ex and I broke up before the season last year. So it’s been a while since I went out with anyone seriously.”
Said with the possible implication that I’m not. “Wow, you really are a baseball monk. No one since then?”
“No one real serious.” Josh rotates the ice in his glass. “How about you?”
“It’s been a while.”
His eyes widen. “Really?”
“Yes. Really,” I say, with emphasis.
He hums. Maybe scoffs.
“This shocks you?”
“I mean, when you look like”—he gestures at my face—“and I’m sure the World Series ring didn’t hurt. You could have whoever you want.”
“And yet, I’m sitting here with you,” I say, never breaking my gaze, letting the answer land. One more step toward clarity with this guy who can be hard to read.
Josh smiles at that, a slow spread of a smile, different from the others I’ve seen. “Well, this is a nice table and all, so a good place to be sitting,” he says drily.
I laugh. “A very good place. You really want to know what I did for most of November?”
He stares at me sharply. “You wanna rub it in that we lost? Again?”
“Nah. I told you I’d be gentle if you want me to. Anyway, I partied, sure, but mostly I slept and did TV spots. And, you know, there was this guy who plays for the New York Union who, every time I turned on The Sports Network, there he was, being asked about me. I think he might have called me a dirty player once or twice.”