Chapter 8

[Vee]

"I'll think about it," I eventually tell Ross, which in mom-speak, typically means a silent hell no .

There are a number of reasons why I don't like his idea, top of which is being a woman who sneaks into, and then out of, his hotel room, like we're having a clandestine affair. I am assuming he wouldn't want anyone to know about our arrangement since he thought it was best we did not share what happened that night in Houston with anyone else.

There's also that pesky thing called his girlfriend to consider.

Everything in me screams to call Cassandra and immediately tell her about this bizarre proposal, but something holds me back.

That something being the sudden inspiration to write. Within ten minutes of returning to my rented condo, I've shed the flummoxed emotions of Ross's suggestion, and found a hint of creativity.

Just the beginnings of a story. Roughly twelve-hundred words to set a scene. Nothing profound or earth-shattering, but the sentences start to flow. The page was no longer blank. By the time I'd finished my thoughts, I'd filled one and a half sheets in a word document.

Word by word. One sentence at a time until a paragraph forms. Then a page. Then a chapter. Basic writing steps in their most rudimentary form.

The spark to create felt good. I needed a flame, but a flicker was still something. A flash of hope.

Maybe I need Ross Davis as much as he claims to need me. Or at the very least, I need that spring training stadium as plot ideas sparked during the game.

As the scene I'm concentrating on nears the end, and my characters are no longer telling me where they want to go next, other thoughts creep into my head, like Ross's ridiculous proposition and my own curiosity .

With my phone in my hand, I pull up Ross's number. His direct number as he clarified earlier. My finger hovers over the new contact before I switch to the texting app and I press the writing icon.

Was I really considering his proposal? Should I do this? Could I sleep with Ross Davis again? He isn't propositioning me for sex. That would be preposterous, right? I huff aloud to the empty room as if the vacant space can hear my thoughts.

At the very least, though, I had logistical questions and I type out a text, then press send.

How would this work?

His response is instantaneous, as if he'd been waiting for my reply.

Is this a yes?

Me: This is me asking for details.

Ross: Maybe we should have that drink after all?

Aren't we past the formality? He'd already proposed I sleep with him.

No question about sex. There won't be any.

No emotion implied. There wasn't a place for them.

This was just your average request from a man to a relative female stranger to spend the night with him in a bed. Sleeping. Mentally insert all the sarcasm .

But as an avid Anchors fan, shouldn't I do what I can to help my favorite baseball team be successful?

News articles are written about all kinds of people— superfans —and their strange game day traditions. Like the guy who washes his dog every Tuesday during a home game for the win. Or the woman who eats tacos for breakfast on Saturdays for the win. Or the elderly fan who dunks his donut three times into his coffee during the fourth inning for the win.

Lucky shirts. Lucky socks. Lucky hats.

Processes. Beliefs. Faith.

If I, an ordinary person not playing on the team, do this or that then my beloved team will win .

Maybe if I have a drink with Ross Davis, he'll change his mind about all this nonsense.

Then again, curiosity has me by the throat. The same place I want those thick hands of Ross Davis to cup me when that isn't on the table.

Or should I say bed?

Me: When and where?

+ + +

Professional baseball's spring training season is roughly a month long, and with the Anchors two weeks into their schedule, they didn't have much longer to be in Arizona. That meant their calendar was packed with three-game series either at their spring stadium or at the stadiums of their fellow Arizona-based opponents.

Since Ross had a series of late-afternoon away games the next three days, he opted for a coffee date to discuss the particulars the day after his proposition.

Anxiously, I sit on the patio of the farm-to-table breakfast place I'd suggested near my rental. The food here is exceptional, although I don't have an appetite. Since our meeting yesterday in Ross's office, my stomach has been in knots, but my mind has unraveled.

Ideas for my next book were flowing, like the lazy trickle of a stream, a little bumpy over river rocks, but still a puddle of clarity moving forward.

I couldn't wait to get back to my place and type.

For now, I fidget on the wrought iron chair that is slightly unbalanced on the cement patio, causing me to teeter back and forth if I shift too far to the left on the seat.

Back and forth. Back and forth . Like my decision about Ross's suggestion. Should I, or shouldn't I?

"Hey, sorry I'm late." His deep voice behind me startles me, then his hand casually strokes over my shoulder, and I twist to look up at him.

Ross Davis is just too good looking. Dressed in lightweight athletic pants and a T-shirt that stretches over the expanse of his chest, he looks like he walked off the pages of a sports magazine. His full sleeve of tattoos on display. His head is not covered by a baseball cap, a bit of an anomaly compared to most photographs of him, and my personal fantasies, which include him wearing the signature hat. Mirrored sunglasses cover his eyes and when he removes them to lean in and place a quick, surprising kiss on my cheek, his eyes match the vibrant-blue Arizona morning sky when he pulls back and looks at me.

That look alone has a resounding yes on the tip of my tongue. I'll do whatever he asks.

Then, I shake the thought and reach for my tea, lifting the mug for my lips and taking a too-fast, too-large sip, scalding the inside of my mouth on the still hot liquid. Instantly, I reach for my water glass, desperate to down the entire eight ounces to cool my tongue. So, I'm guzzling the cold liquid, ice hitting my teeth which causes water to dribble outside the glass and probably spill on me. I'm a mess.

Ross's thick brows crease as he watches me drown myself. His gaze flicks to my shirt, then he quickly glances away, his Adam's apple rolling hard before he points toward the inside of the café. "I'm going to get a coffee."

While continuing to drink, I nod and hum my approval. When Ross steps away, I set down the half-empty container and slam my elbow on the table, placing my forehead in my hand. Glancing at my shirt, I find I'm speckled with water drops.

Of course . Amid the ‘food-catchers' as Cassandra likes to teasingly call our ample breasts that nab stray crumbs and splashes of liquid, I have an array of dots, but the most embarrassing one is right over my nipple, which is now peaked and prominently on display beneath my white tee. What was I thinking wearing a white shirt?

I do the boob swish next, which involves using my forearms like windshield wipers to rub out the hard nipples in an attempt to smooth them.

This is just my luck . Hard nipples. Wet T-shirt. Not even going to think about how much liquid intake I just consumed and how quickly that will process through my body. I'll need to pee before Ross takes his first sip of coffee. Let's just hope the stress doesn't trigger a hot flash.

Maybe Ross will change his mind and decide I'm no charm for him after all.

Lucky is certainly not a term I'd use to describe myself. The real blessing in my life is my two girls. I've been fortunate to have a short career as a librarian and then a second one as an author. But I wouldn't say luck has necessarily been on my side.

Ross returns rather quickly—mid breast swish—and I lower my arms, attempting to disguise what I'd been publicly doing. As for the water stains, there is no hope.

"Drinking hazard." I laugh at myself. "Definitely not an amulet of good fortune."

He snorts as he takes the chair opposite me at the round café table. "I told you before, you're kind of adorable."

I roll my eyes, marveling that he remembers he said such a thing, and wishing he'd come up with another adjective.

Setting his forearms on the too-small-for-his-limbs table, he cups his to-go coffee mug and smiles at me.

"So," he begins.

"So." Suddenly, I can't look at him. His blue gaze is too intense, too hopeful. His sunglasses are tucked into the collar of his shirt, dangling near his collarbone and I focus there instead.

"I've been thinking . . ." he begins.

That doesn't sound like a good idea as this is how his proposal began .

"And I thought maybe I should come to your place. Less risk of being seen. Plus, that's what happened the first time. I came to your room."

Less risk of being seen? Because he certainly wouldn't want anyone to know about this ludicrous plan. Or is it that he doesn't want to be caught with someone like me? The T-shirt stained, nipple-swishing woman. The former hot flash, potty dancing, elevator queen .

"What would Chandler think of all this?" I blurt, wondering where his girlfriend is, or what her opinion would be on this situation.

His thick brows divot. "I told you we broke up."

"And I've seen your social media which showed you together again." Deceit and disloyalty are two things I cannot abide. And what was I supposed to think when Ross is asking me to share his bed while his social media showed him and his stunning former flame together again back in January? I hate that I'm admitting I've stalked him. That I've checked out his Instagram a time or two, or twenty, driving myself crazy when I saw him dressed in a tux for some gala with his curvaceous, young girlfriend in a slinky white dress clinging to his arm. That's the moment I stopped following him.

His gaze drops to the table, his fingers sliding up and down the side of his to-go cup. "Back in October, she called things off. Not that we were on. We only went on a few dates together, but she'd wanted me to call her my girlfriend, and I wouldn't do that. But we had prior commitments to fulfill, and we weren't each other's date in the traditional sense."

"I didn't realize there was a non-traditional sense." I tilt my head.

"Well, we'd certainly be in a non-traditional position." His gaze flits between us before he glances over his shoulder, checking the nearness of other customers before he leans closer to me. "I mean, how often does a man ask a woman to sleep with him, only for sleep." He pauses, his forehead furrowing. "Out of necessity."

I snort. A deep, obnoxious honk. Covering my nose with my hand, I fake a cough.

His eyes widen, a smile tugging at his mouth. "Was that a snort?"

"It was a snortle."

He chuckles. "What the hell is a snortle?"

"More like a snort slash laugh, but not a true snort. A distant cousin of sorts."

His mouth slowly ticks higher, spreading wider before he lifts his mug to cover the fact he wants to laugh. At me .

"And what is that sound all about?" He tips up one brow while bringing his cup to his lips, sipping at his fresh coffee.

"There is no way sleeping with me is a necessity." My voice is too loud, the absurdity echoing around us.

Ross chokes on his drink before glancing over his shoulder once more. Then he turns back to me, expression firm and serious while vulnerable and raw at the same time. He lowers his voice. "This is important. To me."

We're silent a second while he stares at his coffee cup again.

"However," he clears his throat. "I haven't asked if you have someone in your life. Maybe this would be a conflict of interest for him ."

What if it's a conflict of interest for me ? My real concern is the close proximity of our bodies in a bed. That first night, something special occurred. Something magical and spontaneous, and trying to recreate that moment is like setting words to paper when you can't summon a coherent thought. Or sending a steal signal to a player when he doesn't have enough time to reach the next base. You can't force something that might have been a one-time occurrence. A happy chance .

I'd like to think Ross knows this is an awkward, even stressful, predicament he's requesting of me.

Lowering my head, I slowly shake it. "There isn't anyone else." He knows I'm a widow, if he remembers everything as he claims he does.

Silence lingers between us another second. My thoughts scramble between Ross not wanting to call Chandler his official girlfriend and his proposal for me.

"What would I get out of this arrangement?" I'm not trying to sound greedy or even selfish. I hadn't considered that I should get something out of this bargain until this moment.

"Do you want to be paid?" His brows lift, wrinkling his forehead.

My mouth falls open. "I'm not for hire." Collapsing back in my chair and crossing my arms over my midsection which only accentuates the wet stains and hard nipples, like headlights announcing an approaching disaster, I glare at him across the table .

Ross clears his throat. "I didn't mean to insult you. Of course, I want this to be mutually beneficial, but I don't know what I can offer you in return." His eyes sheepishly meet mine, and then lower for the cup between his large hands.

I'm not suggesting tit-for-tat. I'm simply bamboozled by his idea that this kind of arrangement might help him. Help the Anchors.

"I am just trying to understand your thinking. Your reasoning."

Ross extends his arms while not releasing the to-go mug centered on the table between his hands. "I need this. I need to make an impression. I need wins."

"You're the manager, Ross. You'd been a player a long time before you took to coaching. You're a good coach. You know what to do." I emphasize. "You've done this before with the Flash."

His gaze lands on mine. "And look how that turned out for me."

He might have been let go from the Flash, but he also wanted to return to Chicago, or at least, that's what he told me months ago.

"Look, Coach," I chide. "It's the beginning of the season. All teams look rough. You move players around like chess pieces if you need to, but they'll get there. You'll get there." Wherever the proverbial there is.

"Is this supposed to be a pep talk?" His mouth crooks upward again. His eyes blaze with heat, but the flame is soft.

"Whatever it takes," I tell him.

"What it might take is another night together." His entire demeanor shifts, and although I'm a writer, I can't find the words to describe his expression, other than a puppy-dog plea despite the white scruff along his jaw suggesting he's more like man's lifelong best friend than a scrappy pup.

Now who is the adorable one?

I sigh as thoughts collide in my head. What would it really hurt? We've already spent a night together. It's only a bed and a few hours. We don't need to touch. We don't even need to talk. One night might prove his superstition is simply unwarranted. I am not lucky for him.

"Okay," I mutter, lowering my gaze for the tea I've left untouched since burning my mouth .

I'm not a superstitious person, so I'm hopeful that scalding move wasn't a foreshadow that Ross Davis could burn me in this process. However, as I appear to have lost my head, I can't be trusted to interpret symbolism.

"Yeah?" His voice lifts, hopeful while hesitant.

"Yeah."

And the next question I ask is almost as ludicrous as this entire idea. "What time is your bedtime?"