Chapter 24

[Vee]

Ross steps into my medium-size living room and spins in a slow circle, taking in the large bay window overlooking the city side-street. My charcoal gray couch is littered with bright colored throw pillows. A large-ish television sits on top of a light-colored wood cabinet. Two high back chairs stand side by side with a dainty antique table between them like a cozy sitting space. My place is feminine as it is only me until Hannah comes home for a short summer visit between semesters.

Finally, he faces me and lifts the bouquet of flowers. "For you."

Flowers are always a sketchy gift, especially when it comes to apologies, as in, they aren't one, and Cameron gave them often as a cover for his conscience.

"I didn't take you for a flowers man," I state, accepting the bouquet and bringing the vibrant blooms to my nose. The array of spring flowers was not a cheap collection from a local grocery store.

Ross shrugs. "There are lots of things about me that might surprise you." His eyes don't leave mine and a shiver runs down my spine.

"Let me put these in water and get some glasses for that wine."

Ross glances down at the bottle in his other hand as if he's forgotten he brought something else with him. He nods, but then he follows me to my kitchen where his presence fills the small space.

While I fill a pitcher with water for the flowers and arrange them inside the container, Ross makes himself at home, opening a couple drawers until he finds a bottle opener, and does the honors to open the wine bottle and pour us each a glass.

Our motions feel rather domestic, like a couple comfortable with one another after years of living together.

Instantly, I scold myself for the thought, not wanting to get ahead of myself again with this man.

With my head, I motion for him to follow me back to the front room, but he helps himself to the seat Cassandra vacated in the kitchen .

"What can I do for you, Ross Davis?"

Ross digs his teeth into his lower lip and scans me from top to toe. "You can't lead with that kind of question, Vee."

"Then you lead. What do you want?" The question is harsher than it should be, but I can't find much grace for Ross. I'm sorry his team lost and I'm sorry his team members don't get along, but none of that is my concern. He's the manager.

"I should have called." He sighs, staring down at the wine glass on the table where his thick hands cup the stemless glass. "But I didn't and that's on me."

I don't respond.

"The thing is, Vee, I miss you in my bed." My mouth falls open and his expression turns stricken. "That didn't come out right."

"It certainly didn't, especially as I've never been in your bed. You've always been in mine." Like I'm some little secret. His superstition keeper.

Ross clears his throat. "Sweetheart, I didn't want to bring you to my hotel room. It wasn't . . . personal. Comfortable."

I tilt my head. "But that's how we met."

Ross wearily smiles again. "I know. And that night changed everything." He glances up at me. "But a hotel room wouldn't cut it again. The rooms can be so cold and nondescript. At least, at your place, at the rental, the sheets had your scent on them. They were softer, or maybe that was just my bedfellow." His smile grows stronger. "Plus, we weren't having some torrid affair. I wasn't keeping you a secret. I was just keeping you to myself."

He sighs and glances back at his wine glass. "You're the first woman who hasn't wanted something from me. Didn't have an agenda by being with me. And I just found more peace and contentment in your bed."

I'm fortunate I'm sitting because otherwise I might melt on the floor.

Then, Ross adds, "I meant what I said, Vee. I miss you. I miss talking to you and hanging out with you. "

My shoulders lower, the tension tightening my back lessens a little more. Because I miss him, too.

Still. "So, you want back in my bed?"

He sheepishly glances away. "It's a little more complicated than that, isn't it?"

"Is it?" I arch a brow. "Because I won't have sex with you for superstitious reasons."

Ross's head lifts, his eyes wide. "Okay."

"Okay?" I huff. "That's it."

He sits taller, straightening his elbows while not removing his hands from the stemless wineglass. "I know the superstition seems silly. And Kip has his theories."

"What are his theories?"

"That my head needs to be focused on the field. That my heart should be on that diamond."

I nod, agreeing with his friend and coaching partner.

"But the thing is, I'm better with you around me. Superstition or not, it feels right having you in my corner to talk to each night."

He wasn't saying holding me or sharing a bed together feels right. But should I split modifiers?

There's something strangely comforting about Ross in my corner as well. He listened to me talk about writing and publishing. He showed interest in learning about my girls. He doesn't mind my quirks, often finding them endearing.

"I want you in my life, Vee. How ever you'll allow me."

Is this some weird voodoo? He's two for three from what Cassandra suggested he might say to me.

And who doesn't need another friend in their life? If we take sex out of the equation, I can keep Ross in a corner, right?

"So, we chat each evening then. No bed required." What do the kids call that? Talking to someone , in place of labeling their relationship status as dating. However, just like sleeping with Ross meant only sleeping, talking to one another is only going to mean we chat .

"If I'm the team manager's uncertified superstition keeper, do I get a special uniform?"

Ross chuckles and arches his brow. "Someone still has a coaching staff jacket."

Hmm . A souvenir I won't be giving back.

"And what do I get out of this new arrangement?" Because while I didn't ask for anything in return the first time, I want some reassurance this is a balanced proposal this round.

"What do you want?" His voice drops, a bit salacious, a lot sexy, but I'm not asking for sexual favors as false compensation.

"I want to pick your brain."

His eyes widen once more. "How so?"

"Since I've returned home, I'm stumped again in my writing." Could be that sometimes it's difficult to write romance when you feel like your romantic life is flailing. Or that I suddenly have my own experience in superstition. Without a certain spring training facility, or possibly the head coach for that team in my life, I'm experiencing a different type of losing streak. A loss of words.

"I want to ask you questions, without judgment, for research purposes."

"For your book?" His mouth quirks up on one side.

"Yes. You aren't my main character, but I still want to better understand a man's perspective."

"Okay." He draws out the word, as if hesitating to commit.

"On subjects like dating and sex. Not that the two are necessarily inclusive."

His brows severely crease. "Is this another two-men-sharing-one-woman thing?" He chuckles but the sound is more like he's being strangled and his bright eyes storm over. He almost looks angry.

"The semantics of that statement should be one woman pleasured by two men." I dismissively wave a hand. "I want to know things ."

"Like?" Hesitation once again .

"How does it feel to kiss a woman? What emotion is involved? What's it like to touch her for the first time? To place your fingers there." I drop my gaze. "Or enter her."

Heavy silence fills my small kitchen. An empty sound as thick as Ross's fingers but as flavorful as our red wine. An electric energy crackles between us.

"Fuck, Vee." Ross exhales hard and scrubs his palm over his face before staring at me. "And this is what you want from me? I spill guy-secrets in exchange for you just talking to me."

I wrinkle my nose. "Sounds kind of detached, doesn't it?"

Ross stares at me long and hard for a moment, then he slowly stands. "In order for it not to be detached, I might need to give examples to express my answers."

With one step, he's before me, turning my stool so I face him.

"Like physical props?" I ask.

Ross hums, placing his hands on my knees and spreading them, then he moves between my legs. He cups my jaw.

"Question one. How does it feel to kiss a woman." He isn't asking.

Instead, he leans forward and presses his lips to mine. Featherlight at first. A whisper of a kiss that has me gaping in surprise before he dives in. His tongue invades my mouth. His lips crush mine. He kisses me like he kissed me the first time, when we were both startled by our response to one another. He kisses me like he did the last time before I left Arizona, when it felt like he was memorizing every swipe and swirl.

I try to school myself. Remind myself this is for research purposes, and I'm his willing guinea pig. But I'm getting as much as I'm giving in this kiss. Which is everything. All my hurt from Ross. All my happiness. He's been a constant contradiction, confounding yet surprisingly compassionate. He seems to appreciate who I am and accept what I do for him.

I'm a good friend.

With that thought, I pull back, cutting the kiss short, surprising Ross who chases my mouth, giving me one more nip before letting me go. His eyes are hooded. His lips swollen. His mouth slowly curls as I cover my own with shaky fingers.

"It's like sipping wine," he begins his instruction while rubbing his thumbs along my cheekbones. "A combination of tart and sweet. A balance on the tongue of tangy and tantalizing. A burst of flavor and then the slow swallow of warmth. The best is when the sensation lingers, like a phantom kiss, making my mouth water and want more."

His gaze drops to my mouth, the look ravenous, like he wants to strip me bare and enter me right here on this wobbling kitchen stool. I swallow hard, then I lick my lips like I can taste all the sensations he described.

"You aren't even a writer." I swallow hard, the warm comfort he mentioned clogs my throat. "And yet that was good." I clear my throat. "Good description. Good example." A-plus-plus .

"What can I say, I enjoy the finer things in life." He strokes my cheekbones once more and I remember him telling me something like that once before. "And you, sweetheart, are one of those fine things."

Oh, he's good. Very good. And I'm in trouble if I don't rein myself in. I should remind him we aren't talking about me. This is for informational purposes. For fictional characters.

Instead, I say nothing and lean back, but I can only pull away so far as the wall is directly behind my seat. My head taps it as I attempt to free myself from the constraints of his clasp and the invasion of his scent, not to mention the stirring buzz lingering from that kiss. Talk about wine analogies.

Ross's hands slowly retreat from my face, and he stands taller. "For insurance purposes, I think I'll hold off on answering the other questions for now."

"Yep," I choke out. If he provides any more examples, we're going to be naked on the floor and I can't allow Ross to expose me like that again.

"Then I'll call you tomorrow? "

I nod, preparing to walk him to the door but afraid to let go of the seat of the stool. I hadn't realized I'd been clutching it so tightly, holding myself back from touching him, from pulling him closer to me.

"I'll show myself out," he finally says, and I'm left sitting in my kitchen, wondering what just happened.

Did he kiss me to get what he wanted, or did he kiss me because he wants me?