Chapter 33

[Vee]

"I think I made a mistake," I state to Cassandra the next morning when we brunch. She hates the busyness of Sundays, and we sometimes pick a weekday for the late breakfast meal.

We sit inside a swanky little café in the West Loop. With rain in the forecast, the interior is gloomy while typically sunny and bright. Tables fill the space, and a large bar runs along the back wall. Bloody Mary's are their specialty drink any day of the week. The place has a 1920s Art Deco-meets-modern-day vibe about it with arched mirrors and gilded bursts that look like flat palm trees.

"What happened?"

"Ross and I had a fight, of sorts." Or rather I had a full panic attack. Ross was getting real with his feelings, and I stepped back. I couldn't fully explain my reaction. However, I'd tossed and turned all night, arguing with myself, confused by my behavior.

"About what?" Cee-Cee casually asks, sipping a Bloody Mary while we wait for our orders.

"He wants me to go to Philadelphia to meet his sister." I drop my gaze from Cassandra to my utensils, still wrapped in a paper napkin.

My best friend chokes on her drink. "He what? Wow."

"I know, right? Like who takes their sleeping buddy to meet their siblings?"

Cee-Cee chuckles. "Girl, you're more than a sleeping buddy."

I sigh, flipping the rolled utensils. "He called me his girlfriend."

"He what?" She repeats louder, glancing around the room.

I reach across the table to grip her wrist because if I know Cassandra, and I do know her, she's about to blurt to this entire room that I'm Ross Davis's girlfriend.

"Would you keep your voice down?" My eyes warn her to also keep her thoughts to herself .

She lowers her head and her voice. "Vee, you're dating Ross Davis. Sexiest silver fox baseball coach, and most eligible bachelor."

"Since when is he the most eligible bachelor?" What a title .

"Since he ditched the streaming service queen."

"That's just it." I lower my head and retract my hand. "He told me he hasn't called anyone else his girlfriend. Ever. Since his wife passed."

I feel Cassandra's eyes on me.

"Anyway . . . don't you think meeting his sister is too soon. I mean, what do I say when I meet her? Hi, I met your brother in an elevator, and he decided I was a superstition whisperer, so we've been sleeping together, only now we're having sex, too. And now I'm his girlfriend after only a few months."

"Well, when you put it like that?" Cee-Cee chortles. "But let's back up. You're having sex with him again?"

I roll my lips, knowing I've opened the proverbial can of worms, and now I'm going to squirm.

"Yesterday, after his game."

Cassandra watches me for another long moment. "You slept with him before. Did the second time not measure up to the first?" She wrinkles her nose, lifts her pinky, and then bends it like it's wilting.

A strangled chuckle escapes me. "No, it was good."

"Sounds like it." Sarcasm drips from her voice as she reaches for her Bloody Mary again.

"No. It was . . . life-altering." The things he said. Whole. Home . The way he masters my body and moves his. The things he does to me, taking me over the edge not once but twice before he thinks of himself. What they say about women in their forties is true. Our libido comes back swinging and doesn't want to rest.

But Ross also makes me feel things. Things that frighten me, like I could love him. That I could trust him with my heart.

"Oh?" Cassandra lifts a brow before setting her elbow on the table and placing her chin in her hand. "Do tell."

"I'm not kissing and telling." I laugh a little harder.

"I'm asking you to fuck and share with a friend." She winks.

"Cee-Cee," I groan.

"Okay. Fine." She lowers her hand and waves dismissively. "So you had sex. He called you his girlfriend, and he wants you to meet his sister. Sounds pretty awesome to me."

"But don't you think it's unconventional. I mean, he's Ross Davis." I glance around me, hopeful that the couple seated at the nearest table, which is two tables away, doesn't hear us.

"First off, don't speak about him like that. Like he's some kind of god and not just a man. Maybe he's famous. Maybe he makes a lot of money. But at the end of the day, he's a guy with a job that involves playing a game."

I don't think Ross would appreciate his career being reduced to something so simplistic, but I understand what Cee-Cee means. He's a man. His talent or skill, fame or financial status, doesn't make him better than me.

"Plus, you're successful in your own right, Vee. You're V. C. Hux, author of numerous books about love and romance."

"Doesn't that simply make me a woman with a laptop and a wicked imagination?"

For research purposes whispers through my head.

"Do you think I used him?" I question. "Is he fulfilling some fantasy in my head?" I wave beside my head. "My real-life crush turned into a boyfriend."

Cassandra narrows her eyes at me, but I continue. "Have I made an original boyfriend into a book one?"

My best friend groans. "Vee, you've never used anyone in your life. You wouldn't know how. Plus, he called you his girlfriend first, right?" Her point is made.

"What's the real issue here?" she asks, tilting her head, further assessing me.

"I don't trust myself with him."

"You didn't trust Cameron." Her tone turns sharper. "That's what's tainted your faith." She sighs and lowers her voice, reaching for my hand across the table. "You had conventional, Vee. You married your high school sweetheart who turned out to be a dick."

"Cee-Cee," I moan, hating when she speaks ill of the dead, even if she's correct on some level.

"He cheated on you, Vee. He broke your marriage vows and your heart. And I tolerated him, because you're my friend, but he was kind of a dick in general. So, screw conventional. Or better yet, screw Ross, a hot silver fox who fills out baseball pants very nicely, and a man who called you his girlfriend, because he wants more than a sleeping arrangement with you."

I giggle weakly at her enthusiasm.

"Vee, you do trust yourself. You believe in Ross, right?"

"I do." I trust Ross, just not my feelings for him.

"Listen to your gut."

I don't think Ross would intentionally hurt me. He's too vulnerable himself at times. I lean forward, the ache in the pit of my stomach almost viable. "I messed up, didn't I?"

Cassandra smiles, squeezes my hand and releases it. "I think you just panicked because you don't trust that good men are out there. You had one not-so-great guy, and then a slew of poor dates."

"Sound familiar?" I tease. She's broken in many ways as well, and her perpetual bachelorette-hood is a front for that heartbreak. She's also stronger than me with her love-'em-and-let-them-be attitude.

"You aren't me," she continues, emphasizing how opposite our personalities are regarding relationships. "You crave stability. Something solid and secure. Trust is necessary for those attributes, but you're afraid to believe it exists in others. But believe in yourself . Hand over your heart."

"What if my heart breaks again ." What if Ross wakes up and realizes the novelty has worn off, like I thought last night. What if he realizes I'm not good luck. I didn't change the trajectory of his team's wins and losses. I'm just an average woman, like he's a man .

"Hearts mend," Cassandra says, her voice turning more serious. "And you should allow yourself a little romantic reality from the fantasies you write."

"Most people want to escape reality and live through romantic fantasy."

"Live the reality." Cassandra leans across the table, placing her hand over my wrist. "You deserve your own happily-ever-after, Vee. And maybe that starts on a baseball field."

I glance toward the window. I haven't decided if I'll attend tonight's game or not. I'm a bit of a fair-weather fan, and a downpour and cold temperatures will definitely keep me away from the stadium. May can be so unpredictable in the Midwest.

"Isn't there some baseball saying about you don't score unless you swing at the ball?" Cassandra sips at her Bloody Mary and then signals for our waitress.

"You mean if you don't swing, you'll miss one-hundred percent of the balls?"

"I like my saying better. Go for the balls, Vee. You might score." She wiggles her brows. "Love and forty."

"Those are tennis scoring terms, not baseball ones. And that was all euphemisms, wasn't it?" I laugh.

"You know it." She lifts her empty Bloody Mary glass and taps against mine resting on the table. "I'm a sexual-innuendo-aficionado."

I shake my head, laugh at my friend. She's something alright, and unfortunately, she's right.

What I'm most afraid of is the heartbreak that could rest on the other end of Ross's season. However, if I don't go for whatever this is with Ross, I'll never know if my already damaged heart could eventually mend.

"Isn't that Romero Valdez?" Cassandra interrupts my musings.

Turning my head in the direction of the couple seated two tables away, who are standing to leave the restaurant, I answer her. "I think so." However, I'm not great at recognizing players outside the context of the ballfield .

Turning back toward Cassandra, I set down my glass. "Now enough about me. Tell me what's going on with you?"

"Funny you ask." However, her expression isn't filled with humor as she starts her tale.

+ + +

Good luck, Coach , I text. I leave off the ass-slap, which really should be an emoji, when I send Ross the message that I won't be at the game.

The Anchors game is rain-delayed by an hour. I predict the eight-ten start means the game won't end until sometime near eleven. As I make the decision not to attend, because rain and cold don't mix with my warm blood, I turn on the game on my television, and set the volume low as background noise while I work.

My writing has come in fits and spurts lately, and that's not an intentional innuendo about my fictional hero and heroine. Still, the story stalls and starts at odd times and tonight seems to be a moment where clarity reveals itself.

But as the game nears its end and my characters need a break, I make another decision for the night.

I don't let myself into Ross's home because that borders on stalker-ish, not to mention, he trusted me with the code, but it didn't give me permission to come and go as I pleased. So, I anxiously stand outside his door near midnight, while the rain hammers the pavement behind me. I'm grateful for the small roof overhanging the raised landing before his front door.

With a shaky finger, which is trembling from a combination of the cold night and my rattling nerves, I ring the bell, waiting as I assume Ross checks his security camera before answering the door. When he doesn't answer within seconds, I ring the bell again. Waiting once more while second guessing my decision to be here, inventing scenarios why he couldn't come to the door.

He went out with his fellow coaches.

He had other obligations after the game .

He met someone else.

Angered by the imaginary woman I don't want taking my place, I ring the bell one more time.

As I wait what feels like long enough for a man to reach his front door or notice me through his security camera, I come to a final conclusion.

Three strikes. I'm out.

I turn for the stairs, watching the rain pelt the cars lining the dimly-lit city street. The heavy showers ripple up and down the street causing bursts of water to pop from impact with the pavement. Lifting my rain jacket hood, knowing a race to my car might be fruitless—I'm going to be drenched—I'm about to take the first step down Ross's front stairs when his door opens.

"Verona?"

I spin to face Ross, who clutches a towel that's wrapped loosely around his waist.

"Am I interrupting something?" Clearly a shower .

He glances beyond me. "I was taking a shower to warm up. I'm getting too old for rainy games."

"Well, I'll let you get back to—"

Ross steps out onto the covered landing, grips the front of my rain jacket, and tugs me forward, leading me into his house. The door slams behind me and he stares at me. We both drip on his entryway floor. He must have stepped out of the shower and walked directly to the door.

Not certain where to begin, I say, "I'm sorry about the loss tonight."

"You should be." His intention is clear. Without me in his bed last night, he faults me for the Anchor's loss this evening. His good luck charm failed him.

Still, I'm instantly hurt. That open heart Cassandra suggested is instantly pierced and raw. I came here to apologize for my behavior but maybe Ross is finished with my antics.

I hang my head.

But Ross's hand comes to my chin, his fist lifting my face so I look at him. His eyes search my face before his brows cinch.

"Vee." He groans. "I'm not thinking of you as a damn good luck charm." He begins as if he read my thoughts. "I'm not even mad that we lost the game. I'm pissed you ran off last night and didn't talk to me about what you were feeling. I'm upset that you weren't in my bed all night."

He tilts his head. "Do you realize you have yet to sleep in that bed with me ?"

Instantly, I recall how I spent an entire week in his bed without him. And the things I did in that bed, with him, while on the phone.

"I didn't get to hold you, smell you, wake up to your beautiful face this morning."

His hand opens, cupping my jaw. "And I was preparing for another lonely night without you. And yet, here you are."

"Here I am," I whisper.

"Why are you here?" His voice lowers, sand grains in an hourglass. He steps closer to me, crowding me like he did yesterday, until I'm against the front door again.

"I . . ." I take a deep breath, feeling the warmth of his palm on my jaw. The heat of his shower radiates off him. His nearness is what I need. Whole. Healing . "I'm sorry."

His blue gaze is dull today, and darts around my face, searching for something.

"I might have overreacted last night." I lick my lips and lower my voice, the sound strained when I say, "I panicked."

Ross stays still. Close but rigid.

"I'm scared," I admit quietly and blink up at him. "I'm scared of how I feel about you. I'm scared that whatever this is will hurt when it ends."

"Vee." He exhales and lowers his head to mine. "I'm scared too, sweetheart. Frightened of all that I feel. I wasn't expecting this. Any of this." He pauses. "I wasn't expecting you ."

"Me either." Ross Davis in reality is so much more than the fantasy that lived in my head.

"I haven't felt like this in a long, long time." His voice is fine gravel .

"I don't know that I've ever felt this way," I whisper, closing my eyes, afraid he'll see all the pain of my past and the fears for my future.

Ross pulls back and swipes his thumb along my cheekbone. His eyes are bit brighter, wide and watching me. "Who says this feeling has to end, Vee?"

"You can't predict that it won't." I swallow around the thickness in my throat.

"I can't predict wins or losses, but I still play the game."

"I don't want to be a game to you." I blink as my eyes cloud.

"Sweetheart. Vee. You aren't a game." He tugs me to him, wrapping me in a hug with one arm. His other hand still clutching the towel at his waist. My face is against his warm, bare chest. My soaked rain jacket presses against his fresh skin.

Too soon, he pushes me back and holds my shoulder.

"Do you need a pep talk?" His mouth curls. The stiffness in him lessening. He pushes back my hood and then brushes back my hair, running his knuckles down the side of my neck.

I chuckle weakly. "Didn't know what you were getting yourself into by holding that elevator, did you?"

Ross stares at me a second. Maybe he's forgotten how he held the door when I raced to catch that lift back in November.

"Holding that elevator might have been the best thing to ever happen to me."

Ross and I stare at one another a long second before I slowly unsnap each closure on my rain jacket. Snap. Snap. Snap . The sharp sound mingles with our sudden ragged breaths. Ross watches as my coat slowly opens, revealing his jersey underneath. I let the rain-slicked material drop to the floor.

"Is this your idea of a pep talk?" His gaze doesn't leave me. Taking in his jersey on top. Jeans on the bottom. Feet in flip flops.

"Let's not talk," I whisper.

Then I tip up on my toes, palm his bristly face and tug his mouth to me. We shift until my back is against the hallway wall. Ross had been clutching his towel, even when he hugged me .

Within minutes, his towel is forgotten, dropped to the floor.

"Towels have a funny habit of slipping off you in my presence," I tease, taking the liberty to glance down at him, long and erect, and wrap my hand around his thickness.

"Funny. Only happens when you're around."

"Lucky me," I jest.

"No. Lucky me." His mouth is back on mine as I tug at his length, squeezing him harder, like he likes it. His fingers fumble with the jersey I wear.

"I thought you liked me in this," I remind him against his mouth.

"I'd like you better out of it."

I push him back until his back hits the opposite wall. Then, I remove the jersey myself, slowly revealing my body to him and letting the material fall to the floor with his towel and my rain jacket. I kick off my flip-flops and lower my jeans all while Ross watches me, biting the side of his fist. Eyes roam over me like I'm a precious jewel.

Standing before him in only my bra and underwear, we stare at one another for a second.

I shiver, both from his inspection and the coolness lingering in the hall from the rainy air outside.

Then Ross crosses the hall again, mouth crushing mine. The kiss says everything. He wants me as much as I want him. I'm his. He's mine. Us. Together.

Falling against the wall behind me once more, Ross kisses down my body, lowering to one knee. He props up my foot on his thigh, opening me up to him. Then his face is between my legs and my hands comb back his wet hair. His mouth is warm. His tongue thick, and quickly he finds that nub that triggers everything inside me to come undone.

He licks me with broad strokes and sharp flicks until I shatter, crying out his name in the dark entryway. Like fireworks exploding after a homerun. I revel in every starburst and explosion.

Ross lights up my life .

As I feel my knees giving up and the orgasm subsides, I cup the sides of his head, lifting his chin so he faces me. Then I lean down and kiss him again, swirling my tongue into his mouth, tasting me on him. Marking him.

"Fuck, that's hot," he mutters against me before standing, his knees cracking as he does. The hardwood must not have been comfortable.

I fist Ross again, stroking his thick length, teasing the head. I shift him and lift my leg, hooking it around his hip, guiding Ross where I want him go. He bends his knees a bit, lining us up and swipes through my slickness, but our heights won't allow us to finish the act against a wall.

"Condoms are in my room," he admits, still dragging through wet folds, teasing me, tempting us to go bare, right here in his hall.

I press at his shoulder, moving him back while I take his hand. Then I lead him up the staircase to his room.

When we reach his room, I climb up on the bed, scoot to the middle and wait as he opens the nightstand drawer for what we need. Once covered, Ross reaches for my ankles and tugs me back to the edge of the bed, my legs dangling off the sides as he stands in front of me. He leans down, one arm bracing him over me while his other hand guides his thick length to line up with my entrance once more. He strokes through my slickness, regaining hardness before he easily glides into me.

"Apology accepted," he grunts as he fills me to the hilt.

And I take a breath, as if I'd been holding mine since I walked into his house.

Keeping himself braced over me, he rolls his hips, the strength in his legs moving him in and out of me. He alternates between watching his entrance into me and looking at my face.

I only stare at him. His eyes are bright in the low light of his room. His smile is more of a smirk, but he looks happy.

Apology accepted .

Handing over my heart to him isn't going to be difficult.