Chapter 11

[Vee]

When the knock comes to my front door around nine, I shouldn't be surprised, yet I am. I open the door with a flourish and stare at the man waiting on the stoop.

Ross is dressed in pants made of a light-weight material and a plain T-shirt, exposing the colorful inked arm I have yet to inspect. In his hand, he holds a bottle of wine. The moment reminds me of the night he stood outside my hotel room door, cradling a crystal bottle of scotch.

"I got your message," he says, watching me from where he remains on the stoop, and I stand inside the condo entryway.

Earlier in the day, I sent him a congratulatory message to which he replied with a simple, "Thank." Not a thank you; not even a thanks, the S glaringly missing on the end of the word.

"I got yours," I tease, leaning against the open doorway. "Not a very verbose man, are you?"

He chuckles. "My kids complain about that all the time." He glances down at the bottle in his hand and lifts it higher. "But the first person I wanted to share the good news with was you."

"Because the experiment worked?" I tip my head against the door, my heart hammering because I'm excited for him, while wishing he was here for more reason than winning a baseball game under the duress of a superstition. Like he wanted to share the winning moment because of me.

His mouth purses. A smug smirk forming. "Because it worked."

Without an additional invitation, I press off the door and step back, allowing him space to enter my place. Presumptuous? Because I'm assuming he's here for a repeat of our sleeping arrangement.

"I thought we could celebrate together," he says, walking through the living room to the bar-like counter that separates the living space from the kitchen area. "Have an actual drink. "

"Versus a fake one?" I tease, moving around him and the counter to enter the kitchen and find wine glasses.

"Versus coffee." His voice drops low, gritty even, like wine implies something more intimate than a caffeinated drink.

Stretching up on my toes for the wine glasses on a high shelf, I wiggle my fingers for the first stemless glass when I sense Ross's warm, bigger body behind me, his spicy cologne invading my senses. He brushes against me. One hand lands on my hip to steady me, while his tattooed arm reaches over mine, stretching for the glass.

"I got 'em," he says near my ear, his voice that sandy sound, his proximity close, as he squeezes my hip.

"Thanks." I lower my arm and glance over my shoulder, meeting a heated gaze from him. Time seems to stand still a moment, then two.

Ross clears his throat, blinking once before retreating, and I'm left feeling a bit breathless and light-headed from both his nearness and his touch.

I search through a drawer for a wine bottle opener, noticing my hands are shaky. Ross rounds the counter with the glasses in hand. Once I find the corkscrew, Ross holds out his palm, doing the honors to open and then pour each of us a glass of rich red.

"You don't seem like a wine man," I admit.

He lifts his glass and sniffs the contents before swirling the dark liquid around inside the glass. "I've been known to enjoy the finer things in life." His gaze meets mine again, smoldering a second, before he chuckles and then taps his glass to mine even though it isn't in my hands. "To winning."

He sips his wine, closing his eyes and humming at the taste. I lift my glass and take a hearty gulp, knowing I'll pay later for this late-night drink. The peppery flavor tickles my throat and instantly relaxes me.

"What else do I seem like?" he asks, lowering his glass to the countertop. He helps himself to one of the two stools beneath the counter on the living room side. I remain standing in the kitchen.

"A man who'd hang out with movie stars and models, speaking of the finer things in life. "

His gaze drops to his glass, one hand holding the bulbous goblet and slowly shifting the glass side-to-side so the contents slosh lazily around the glass. His lowered lids have me questioning if I've somehow hurt his feelings. Maybe he's missing Chandler. She should be his lucky charm.

Ross clears his throat. "You mentioned last night that your husband cheated on you."

The statement is like a stab to my heart. Perhaps I deserve it after what I've said about him.

"And I'm wondering . . . what happened?" He lifts his gaze. "How could he do such a thing to you?"

Genuine concern filters beneath the question. Almost as if he can't believe someone would do that to me. That someone being my husband.

"It was a long time ago," I state, preparing to brush off this soul-baring conversation. "And I guess none of it matters now." The affair ended. Cameron apologized. He is gone. My attitude wasn't so simplistic, but there wasn't any use dwelling on the past infraction even if it caused me to have major trust issues and trouble committing to someone else. Definitely a reason why most dates never made it past the first one.

And yet, here Ross Davis sits across from me for the fourth or fifth time.

He nods once, lowering his gaze again, then lifting his glass for another sip. Setting his wine back on the counter, he says, "So tell me what you did today? Did you write?"

"Tell me about the win," I deflect because his day was much more productive than mine.

"Did you watch the game?" His voice is hopeful as he peers back at my face. His eyes brighten. He chews his lower lip, like he's anxious about my answer.

Slowly, I smile. "I did watch. Very exciting, Coach. Ford Sylver's catch and then the double play to second . . ." I whistle low, expressing how impressed I am by the Anchors' star center fielder .

Ross shakes his head, his expression sobering. "Yeah, but I'm worried about him."

"Because of his ex?"

Ross's brows hitch. "Because of his arm."

"Oh." I lift my glass, taking another pull of the flavorful wine.

"What do you know about his ex-wife?" Ross tilts his head.

"Only what social media tells me."

Ross's hand stills, where he'd been twirling his glass again. He looks up at me, eyes earnest. "Please don't believe everything you see or read in those spaces."

Our eyes lock on one another for a moment before the intensity becomes too much and I pull away. "Okay." I know better than to believe in sensationalism. Real people are behind most tabloid rumors.

Ross clears his throat again and sits straighter on the stool, sliding his hands across the countertop to extend his arms. With the length of them, his hands come to either side of mine, where one holds my wineglass, the other is clenched loosely on the countertop. His thumb runs down the knuckles of my fist, and I flatten my hand on the cool surface.

Ross takes my hand and begins massaging my fingers. Starting with my pinky, he kneads and tugs at the length, like he did the night we met, like he did last night. The sensation is like he's pulling the tension out of me, one finger at a time. With my eyes fixated on his hand, I concentrate on how good his touch feels.

He says, "So now . . . Tell me about your day. Did you write?"

"Oh, we don't need to talk about that." I chuckle, the sound a bit bitter, maybe defensive. More likely deflection.

"Why not?" Ross stills, forcing me to look up at him.

I shrug. Cameron wasn't ever interested in my writing, and the subject became one to avoid. Not difficult to do when the topic hardly came up. However, Cameron was not upset to see that first deposit in our bank account after my initial publication.

The other reason not to discuss my writing is because I'm currently stumped. Again .

"You don't like to talk about it?" Ross questions, his tone almost hurt. Like he really wants to know more, but he'll respect if I don't share.

"I'm just not used to discussing it."

Staring at me like he's trying to read me, I don't give him any hints to better understand me. I don't want to discuss Cameron right now. That isn't who Ross and I are, and in order to protect my heart, we probably shouldn't discuss the difficult stuff.

Like old loves, big hurts, and larger disappointments.

"How did the woman who wanted to be shared by two men turn out?"

My laughter is more of a choking sound. "You remember that?" I still can't believe I told him the plot I was considering.

"I told you I remember everything. And why do you think I was looking for your book in a bookstore?" He smiles. "I was riveted and invested in knowing how things worked out for her."

His confession only makes me laugh harder.

"But seriously, why didn't I find Verona Huxley in a bookstore?"

The question sobers me up a bit. "It's complicated, but I'm independently published, which means I'm the CEO of my own publishing company and the author. Kind of like the publishing house, production team, marketing department, and the creative." I pause, wondering if I'd already lost him, searching for signs of glazed-over eyes, a look Cameron would get whenever I spoke to him about the process and procedure of self-publishing.

Finding no visual evidence that Ross has checked out on the conversation, I continue. "So, not all my books are on the shelf, as the industry calls it. Your typical large scale, or even small business bookshop, isn't going to carry my work."

"Why the fuck not?" His sharp intonation along with the hint of outrage warms my heart.

"It's just how it works, I guess. Plus, even though romance is eighty-something percent of the fiction market, it takes up only a few shelves in most bookstores."

"That's ridiculous. "

"I know." My own voice rises with indignation. "But the truth is, there just isn't space for everyone. So, I live off digital copies, audiobooks, and paperback sales directly from my website."

"You have a website?" His surprise isn't condescending. He's impressed I have my own space on the internet in my name.

"Yep." Pride fills my voice as he moves from stroking one hand to the other. I use my now relaxed hand to lift my wineglass. Cheers to me for working hard . Sometimes it's exhausting, though, being a lone ship in a sea of successful storytellers.

"So, if I looked up Verona Huxley, I'd find you on the internet."

"Actually, I write under V. C. Hux."

"Ah, a pseudonym. Very clever, and mysterious." He shifts his voice to sound both impressed again while a bit deceived, almost scandalized. When he wiggles his brows, I'm not certain I've ever seen him so relaxed or playful.

"And she's who will tell me what happened with the woman who wanted two men at once?"

I snort, covering my nose with my hand.

"A snortle. The story must be a good one." Ross winks, and I might melt into a puddle right here on the tile floor.

"Just tell me what happens. Does she choose one of them over the other?"

I shake my head, zipping my lips, like they are a vault, before teasing him. "You'll just have to read the book." Although I didn't write that story, and I know he won't read a book of mine anyway.

"Okay, Coach. I'm assuming you're here for a second night's sleep beside me."

Ross lowers his eyes sheepishly, glancing at his near empty wine glass. "Well, if there's space . . ."

"Says the man who hogged my side of the bed last night," I tease.

"I'll try harder to not cross the line tonight." He turns his hand sideways and draws an imaginary line on the counter.

I shrug. "You're fine. "

His brows lift and our eyes meet again. "As in, you don't mind that I cuddle up against you?"

My face heats, giving away an answer.

I don't mind him cuddling up against me.