Chapter 13

[Vee]

In the morning, I wake before the alarming hit it disturbs us. Ross has his arm tucked across my chest, hand cupping my shoulder while my arm is wrapped over his, holding his wrist. At some point during the night, I must have pulled him closer, held onto him tighter.

Slowly releasing him, I gently push his arm off me and set it on him, then attempt to slip from the bed. The sudden rustling of the sheets and shift in my position has Ross's arm locking around me again, keeping me in place.

"Where you going?" he groggily mumbles.

"Bathroom." I chuckle softly, having been caught trying to escape our little nest. If only that nest was more of a love one than a just-friends one.

I'd heard what he didn't say last night. How his relationship with Chandler was sex, and probably good sex at that. I miss sex. How pathetic was I that I might even accept bad sex at this point? Then I remind myself I'm not interested in settling for less than I deserve. I'd done that when I took Cameron back after his affair. I'd settled.

Ross gives me a second squeeze, then loosens his arm so I can slip from the bed. Entering the toilet closet, which is a weird concept to me, I do my business, exit the small space and find Ross beside the double vanity brushing his teeth, wearing only his boxer briefs. The outline of his morning wood is prominent, and Ross doesn't seem the least bit shy about his condition. He isn't exactly flaunting it, but he isn't protecting that thick wedge either.

With my cheeks heated, I quickly glance away from him and wash my hands, then reach for my own toothbrush. Our eyes make contact in the reflection of the mirror.

"Would you like coffee this morning?" I don't want him to feel like he needs to rush out of my place. I also don't want him to feel like he needs to linger. I don't know what I want him to feel, and maybe that's more a reflection on me because I'm a bit of an emotional mess this morning.

The idea he had sex with Chandler shouldn't make me envious. She was his girlfriend. He'd been married. He'd had sex with other women in between, but maybe the mind scramble was that he wasn't having sex with me.

Or maybe it was simply that Chandler is beautiful, and I don't compare.

Glancing at myself, I take a long look at my face in the mirror. There are signs being mid-forties is having an effect. Some wrinkles here and there. Frown lines around my lips. A deep crease across my neck. I once read you can tell the age of a woman by looking at her neck, not her face. Mindlessly, I cup mine and smooth down the skin, watching it retract back into place.

"You're beautiful," Ross says, gaze meeting mine through the mirror again.

My face flames, the pink evident in the reflection. An argument is on the tip of my tongue, but Ross continues.

"Every freckle. Every wrinkle. Every scar is a testament to the life you've lived. Getting older is a privilege, remember?" He winks at me, our connection still through the reflective glass. "And I think who you are is pretty spectacular."

Dropping the connection of our gazes in the mirror, I fight a smile.

Quietly, he says, "I should probably get going."

"Of course." I exit the ensuite bathroom and make the bed while Ross finishes up in the bathroom, stepping out a few minutes later dressed in his clothes from yesterday evening.

Maybe he should bring a bag with him? A change of clothes? Should I give him a dresser drawer in this temporary place?

Dismissing all those thoughts, I'm hit with the overwhelming realization that I have less than two weeks remaining in Arizona and no manuscript.

"Walk me out?" Ross asks, surprising me .

I nod before following him to my front door. While I stand near the wall to the left of the entrance, leaning my back against it, Ross puts on his shoes. I hadn't noticed last night that he wore men's flip flops, his toes on display. For some reason, I giggle.

"What's so funny?" He's standing to his full height and steps closer to me, caging me in a bit against this narrow wall space.

"Your feet. I didn't expect you to wear flip flops."

"Are you opposed to feet, or do you have a foot fetish? Like that two-men thing?"

"Oh. My God." I groan. "How do you compare a two-men thing to bare toes. And will you let the polyamorous thing go?"

He chuckles, knowing he's riled me up.

Suddenly, his arm extends, his hand on the wall beside my head. "Just don't like the idea of men sharing you."

"No one's sharing me." My voice lowers, dropping to a lusty cadence. Would he share himself with me? Instantly, I shake the thought and clear my throat. "Anyway, feeling lucky again today?"

His eyes dance with mischief, maybe forming his own interpretation of my question.

"No smacking my ass this morning?" He guffaws.

A strangled laugh catches in my throat. "Yeah, I don't know where that came from."

He tips up his chin, a smirk on his lips. "Next time you spank me, you might need to brace for a spanking in return."

Sweet baby Jesus . The skin on my cheeks goes from mild to flaming hot.

He brushes his knuckles against my neck, pushing my hair over my shoulder. Then he leans closer to me. His forehead almost connects with mine. I can smell the fresh mint of toothpaste on his breath.

I shiver beneath his touch and dig my teeth into my lower lip. Will he kiss me?

"It's gonna be a winning day." His voice drops. The sandpaper on wood rasp sound makes me shiver .

Slowly, I smile, while my heart hammers in my chest. At least he has the right attitude.

"I'll call you later." The statement is a canned response. He didn't call me yesterday. He hardly responded to my text.

And I need to save myself from getting too involved in his superstition act and sexual innuendos.

I clear my throat. "Actually, I have plans later."

He presses off the wall and stands to his full height, arms slowly folding over his broad chest and crossing as he stares at me.

"Plans, huh?"

I don't elaborate. It'd be easy to tell him the truth, but for some reason, I don't. Maybe because the sex thing is still bothering me. Maybe it's more that he could have sex with someone else before coming to spend the night in my bed. And suddenly, I'm thinking of Cameron and how he did such a thing. He'd fucked another woman before he slept with me in our bed.

Ross's brows pinch, watching my expression, which I try to school at the sudden flash from my past. I remind myself Ross isn't Cam. He doesn't owe me his fidelity, just like I don't owe him.

Taking a risk, I grip his warm forearm and give him a squeeze. "Knock it out of the park today, Coach."

Ross doesn't look as carefree as he did a few seconds ago, teasing me about toes and two men. Or reciprocal spankings. Instead, he tips up his chin again and mutters, "Have a good one."

Then he reaches for the door and lets himself out.

And I exhale a breath I hadn't known I was holding.

+ + +

That afternoon, the Anchors won. Operation Superstition was a two-game success.

However, we skipped last night's sleeping ritual due to my plans.

Today, the Anchors return to their stadium with a home game against St. Louis, and I have a ticket for the afternoon matchup. After another morning of minimal word count, I am excited to return to the ballpark, in hopes of some inspiration.

The day is cloudy, with the threat of rain, which the desert climate desperately needs. I've been here long enough to learn rain showers can be fleeting. Still, I brought a pullover sweatshirt with me just in case, along with my freshly charged tablet, prepared to make all the notes on a larger screen than my phone.

With a cold refreshment and a hot pretzel, I settle into my seat and the muse sings. Ideas hit, and I frantically type each thought.

Small town baseball success falls for his snarky agent.

Hawaiian vacation turns to secret baby.

League bad boy needs a marriage of convenience to fix his reputation.

Each idea could be their own storyline. For now, I let the fictions flow.

With my head bent downward during most of the game, I don't notice the heavier rain clouds swiftly roll in, although I feel the temperature shift. A cold front blasts over the stadium, and I use my pullover as a blanket over my legs. Every once in a while, I rub at my bare arms, grappling with myself as to whether the sweatshirt would keep me warmer over my upper half versus my lower body.

A drizzle begins to pepper the stadium, and I tip up my tablet, so it doesn't get wet. Within minutes, the sky opens up, and rain pours in the direction where I sit. I shove my tablet beneath the pullover and wrestle the material, attempting to stretch it over my bent knees, knowing it can only expand so far, protect me so much.

Some people quickly gather their belongings and head to the covered concourse. Others slip into plastic ponchos. And still, a few of us just sit out the brief shower.

The saying in Chicago is, if you don't like the weather, stick around for a few minutes . Inevitably, it will change. Sometimes we can experience all four seasons in a day. It's ridiculous, and I often wonder why I remain in such a temperamental climate. But I'm born and raised in the Midwest, and while I love Arizona, I don't see moving here in my immediate future. I still have a college tuition to pay, and maybe a wedding or two one day, which means mama needs a new book.

Despite the sudden downpour, the game goes on as the rain isn't strong enough to impair or delay play.

As I'm sitting with my feet on the seat in front of me, knees tucked up as tight as I can bring them to my chest, with my pullover stretched around my legs and my arms wrapped beneath my knees like a human pretzel, the man beside me hands me a jacket. He's an older gentleman, his wife beside him.

I glance down at the kind offering then up at him. "Oh, thank you, but no thank you. I'll be okay." My teeth chatter as the cooler temperature settles into my skin, but I fight through the rattle.

"I was asked to pass it down to you." With the jacket still in his grasp, held out to me, he points toward a young man standing in the aisle at the end of our row. Once again, I have seats near the Anchor dugout, a few rows back, with an easy view of the players as they trot out onto the field and then rush back for cover once their turn at bat is over.

The young man standing in the aisle wears black pants and an Anchors polo, plus a ballcap. He looks like an older batboy or a very young security guard. Either way, he nods for me to take the jacket held by the man beside me.

My brows pinch while I shift, holding up my hand as a sign of gratitude before taking the jacket.

"Thank you," I mutter to the man next to me, as I hold up the jacket, spreading it wide to read the front.

"Looks like the official coaching staff's attire," the man beside me states.

Lowering the offering, I glance toward the dugout. From my position, I can't see inside the covered space. Ross is down there somewhere, tucked in a corner, concentrating on the game. The Anchors are up to bat, so I envision Ross observing Gee Scott standing over home plate. Ross's fingers might even nervously round his silver scruff, circling his lips before tugging at his chin .

I bring the jacket to my face, inhaling the spicy masculine cologne scent on the collar, then I flip the outerwear around my shoulders and slip my arms into material that is dry and warm, like it has just been removed from someone else, their body heat lingering inside.

Tugging the two sides tighter around me, like a warm hug, I tuck my face once more into the collar and fight a smile.

That Ross Davis is a damn gentleman, and dammit , I don't want my crush to turn into lust-like or like-lust, or whatever the stage is after a crush, when your attraction grows deeper, your emotions grow fonder, your desire burns hotter, but you haven't crossed the line to another L-word.

One I don't dare to consider falling into with Ross.