Chapter 16

[Vee]

I can't bring myself to wear the opposing team's colors as Cassandra suggests in order to disguise myself in the crowd.

"What kind of blasphemy would that be?" The thought of doing such a thing appalls me, especially as the opponent for the afternoon game is Chicago's crosstown rival, the Agitators, whose colors are black, white, and dark green to match the Tyrannosaurus Rex of their mascot.

After hanging up with Cassandra, I don my favorite team's signature colors of royal blue and bright red, buy a baseball cap at the stadium store, and wear sunglasses as the day is vibrantly sunny. Not that I really need the getup or the mystique of a disguise.

I'm confident Ross Davis isn't looking for me.

I sit in the outfield, officially the lawn seats, and force myself not to look directly at the dugout. Like glancing in that direction might burn my retinas despite the UV-protection over my eyes.

Instead, I focus on Ford Sylver's backside as he stands in centerfield in his sinfully snug baseball pants and mentally objectify him. I also concentrate on the other men acting as my muses, especially Bolan Adler, a new-to-the-team catcher, although his age suggests he's been around baseball for a while.

Without Hannah present, my resident in-the-know about baseball players, I don't have more of a story on him, so I make up my own, adding to the bits and pieces I'd already collected about several of his fellow teammates.

For their privacy and protection, all names will be changed and any situations that might look similar to real life circumstances will be amended or flipped. So far, I don't think I'd done anyone damage turning them into fictitious characters. In fact, my characters are becoming far removed from their real player muses.

As the Anchors are headed for a win during the eighth inning, I decide I've had enough sunshine and the one margarita I splurged on is giving me a headache, so I pack up my things and head back to the rental prepared to write for the remainder of the day.

Fresh air brought fresh thoughts, and back at the condo after the game, I am settling into a good writing rhythm when a knock comes to my door.

I ordered takeout from a local barbeque place that had some of the best brisket I'd ever tasted. Although Chicago isn't a mecca for barbeque lovers, in my opinion, some of the best BBQ can be found in my fair city. After talking with Cassandra earlier in the day, I'd also been missing home. I only have a week left in Arizona, but I am ready to return to my apartment, with all its familiar comforts and proximity to my girls.

As I cross the room for the front door, my mouth waters. Opening the door on a rush, I stare wide-eyed at the man who is evidently not the delivery person.

"Ross?"

He brushes past me like a man on the run and I spin, hand still on the doorknob, staring after him.

"I can't take it," he snaps, tugging his ballcap from his head. He looks like he came here straight from the game. "We lost again."

"What?" I snap, almost as horrified as him. "But you were winning when I left and—"

The sharp way his head whips upward has me holding my tongue.

Ross takes two steps closer to me. "You were at the game?" His eyes narrow, like he's trying to bring me into focus. "I didn't see you."

Was he looking? Probably not.

Guiltily, I lower my head. "I sat on the lawn today." Why was I hiding? Like Cee-Cee said, I didn't deserve to be ignored and that's what Ross had done. He'd been a coward. Instead of facing me, or speaking to me, he simply ghosted me.

With my hand clutching the edge of the open door, I lift my head higher and glare back at him. "I guess our arrangement is null and void. I'm so sorry for your loss."

Loss of the game. But more succinctly, his loss of me .

"Now, I'm expecting dinner any second, so . . ." I wave my hand like I'm sweeping out the dust onto the front stoop of this place.

"Vee," he pleas as another man says, "Verona Huxley?"

I turn in the direction of the delivery person and take the bag he offers me. "Thank you."

The aroma of barbequed brisket hits me despite the food being encased in the plastic bag and takeaway container. I just want to eat my dinner in solitude while I wallow in self-pity and try to make fictional men romantic. A daunting task when nothing in my life speaks of romance.

Ross pauses, watching me, glancing at the bag in my hand and the open door. Then he steps closer to me and places his hand beneath mine, like he'll pull the door shut behind him as he leaves.

I step back giving him space.

Only, the door closes with a sharp snick and Ross remains inside my rental.

"What are you doing?"

"We need to talk." He spins to face me.

"Oh? Now you want to talk? I'm sorry I heard you loud and clear. With your silence ," I bark. "For nearly four fucking days."

I don't know why I'm angry. Because he ignored me? Because he avoided me? Because he kissed me, and it rocked my world when it didn't even ruffle his?

Stalking away from him, I carry my dinner to the kitchen and hastily open and close cabinet doors, slamming them after I've found plates. The cutlery rattles as I tug open the drawer and I fiddle through the forks and knives, removing what I need before slamming it closed as well.

Next, I grab the bottle of wine I'd purchased the other day. The same kind Ross had brought to my place, which was darn expensive and probably explains why it tastes so good. The flavor surely couldn't have been enriched by the company who skipped out on me because of a kiss .

And all the while, I'm having this self-induced tantrum. Because who am I really mad at, me or Ross? Okay, Ross mainly, who stands opposite the counter that divides the living room and kitchen while I work myself into a lather.

I struggle with the corkscrew until Ross reaches over and takes both the bottle and the opener from me.

"Let me." His voice lowers, sand sifting through an hourglass. His gaze drops as well as he efficiently works the opener into the bottle and pops the cork before sliding the bottle back toward me and sets down the wine opener.

Because I'm wound up, I pick up the wine and take a hearty sip right out of the bottle.

Ross watches me, eyes bright and wide. His arms are stretched outward, hands braced on the countertop that works as a wall between us.

"Damn, you're fucking pretty when you're on fire."

I snort with the bottle too close to my lips and I choke on the contents inside my mouth. Setting the bottle down with force, I bend forward, trying to catch my breath as I swallow hard and fight a cough that wins. As I gasp for air because I'm gagging on wine and anger, Ross rounds the countertop to the kitchen and wraps his arms around my middle from behind me.

With his head lowered, face tucked into my neck, he mutters. "I'm sorry. I'm an ass." I feel him swallow against my shoulder. "And I missed you."

Dammit .

I could argue that he isn't an ass, or that he has a fine one, but neither feels appropriate. He can own his error.

Common courtesy counts.

And the fact he admitted he missed me, well . . . I'd be a butt if I didn't admit that made me tingle everywhere.

As the choking subsides, a tickle remains in my throat, and I don't respond to his apology or confession. Instead, a few moments pass with him holding me, squeezing me tighter to him with his chin on my shoulder until he kisses the side of my neck and stands to his full height behind me .

"I'll go," he mutters, defeated.

Sighing, I close my eyes a second before opening them. With my back to him, I quietly say, "Or you could stay and tell me about the game."

Ross spins me so fast to face him I stumble over my own feet. He looks me directly in the eyes, a world of relief in his own, while still surprised by my suggestion.

"How do you feel about brisket?"

+ + +

[Ross]

I fucking love smoked, salty meats, and I think I love her for not kicking me out.

Of course, I don't say that second part.

The past three nights without her have been hell.

The torture started with that kiss. While I shouldn't have done it, I don't regret it.

That kiss knocked me on my ass. I'd thought I might see a few stars if I ever got to kiss Vee. Maybe a little fireworks-over-a-stadium kind of effect from her mouth meeting mine. Instead, I saw the sacred Northern Lights. Kissing her was magical and confounding.

I never expected one kiss from Vee to impact me so hard. Never expected how surprisingly right her mouth felt. How instantly turned on I was. How much I wanted her.

This wasn't supposed to happen. We had an imaginary line that we never officially discussed, and it had not only been crossed, it has been obliterated.

Now all I can think about is kissing her again, and how much I've been missing her, especially our nights together. This isn't only about the experiment. With every lost game, I found myself wanting to call Vee and talk to her. Just hear her voice, telling me something random or encouraging. Her little pep talks aren't inconsequential to me. She believes in me, and I feel that faith in my gut. She played along with our arrangement, but she also has these tiny tidbits of advice. Or reminders.

I'm the manager. I've been in this position before. I've been a player on a team. Baseball is in my blood like writing is in hers. I got this. I just need more time to weather the kinks.

And thinking of kinks also reminds me of how I told her I might spank her if she ever smacks my ass again.

I want to touch her, and not just the smarting pain of a crack on her bare ass. I want to feel her skin, explore her breasts, experience her clit, and be inside her.

The rush of desire comes visceral and fast, but not out of nowhere, because I've been falling for her from the moment I met her in that damn elevator. Okay, maybe it was more likely when she was trying to get into my room, but still . . . I wanted to be close to her and I was slowly discovering all the reasons why I felt this pull.

The way she opens the door with a flourish, like she can't wait to let me in.

Or that damn snortle that tells me she's covering up what makes her want to giggle at forty-five years old.

Or the wistful sigh she has for memories of her dad or a romantic story she's plotting.

There is so much more to Vee than sharing her bed. I want her to share herself with me.

And I fucked up.

After that kiss, I hadn't panicked so much as pulled back before I did something rash like take her down to the tile floor in the entry way and dry hump her. My dick had been so hard, and my thoughts were so out of control the other morning, I had to escape.

Why did I stay away for nearly four days? Because I'd hoped the craving would pass. That the desire to be near her would subside with separation.

What's that saying about absence makes the heart grow fonder? It sure fucking had, because I couldn't take another minute of being without Vee .

I don't need to spend the night. If she wants me to leave after dinner, I will. I just want a little more time with her. I want a little more of her.

"What did you get?" I whisper because I'm too choked up that she's willing to let me linger.

"Sliced brisket. Coleslaw, French fries, and cornbread." She sighs, a sad smile on her face while shaking her head. "I definitely over-ordered for one person but I'm an anxiety eater."

Running my knuckles along her neck, I brush her hair over her shoulder. "I'm sorry if I am the cause of that, Vee." Because I know I'm the reason she's upset.

We should talk about that kiss, but when I glance down at the countertop and notice Vee has already set out two plates and two sets of forks and knives, I realize she intended for me to stay even while she was getting worked up.

"You sit. Let me serve you." Pressing on her shoulders, I force her around the counter to one of the two stools. Pulling it out for her, I gently settle her onto the seat and reach over the counter to distribute the food.

She's right. There is too much for one person and I quickly divvy up the brisket and side dishes. Then, I find glasses for the wine and pour a glass but stop before filling hers.

"Would you rather drink right out of the bottle?" In jest, I hold up the container.

"Don't tempt me." She smirks.

If only I didn't want to tempt her into giving me more.

Kip warned me emotions would get in the way of this experiment, and I'd argued no such thing could happen.

But watching Vee sheepishly smile back at me, twirling her finger in the air giving me permission to continue pouring her a glass of wine versus handing over the bottle, I can't help but accept my argument was a failure.

And I don't want to fail Vee.