7. Gianna

"That man is like lightning." The voice had me glancing up from my phone. Avery's friend Wren was staring down at the field from our box. "I bet he steals second before the first pitch."

"No," Avery shook her head. "Em always waits at least one pitch. He loves the fake out too much to go too soon."

Wren chuckled and cocked a knowing brow. "That's true. He's mastered the art of the fake out."

Avery giggled in response, clearly understanding the joke there that made no sense to me.

I bit back a huff. I didn't want to be annoyed with them, but I felt out of the Emerson loop, and that was…oddly frustrating.

He was oddly frustrating. I couldn't get a read on the guy. After last night, maybe I really did understand what they meant by him being good at the fake out. Twice between the building's super storming in and the end of the night, I thought he was about to kiss me. Both times, he pulled away and went back to his friendly, goofy self. It left me feeling dumb for reading into something that clearly wasn't there.

I had planned to just avoid him today. The team was leaving on a five-day road stretch, and my hope was that when he got back, we'd both have forgotten. But I'd already promised Avery that I'd come to the game with her and Wren and Wren's parents. She was convinced Wren and I would get along.

She promised that we had similar interests in art and fashion, and I wouldn't say that she was wrong. Wren worked at the Boston Auction House, facilitating the sale of artwork. And even while attending a baseball game, she had a classy air around her. The high-waisted pants and a silk tank top she'd chosen, along with a pair of wedges, made her look more ready for lunch at the country club than a sporting event.

I had considered not wearing this sundress to the game, knowing Avery always opted for jean shorts and my brother's jersey, but as adorable as she looked in a jersey, those things made me look like I was wearing an oversized box. Now that we were here, with Wren and her parents dressed to impress, I was glad I'd stuck to my favorite blue sundress.

"Look, he's already playing with him." Wren tipped her chin to first base.

Down on the diamond, Emerson crept away from first, leaving just the tip of his cleat on the bag. He was smiling and joking with the first baseman while he waited for Mason Dumpty to get up to bat.

"Walking Em seems dumb." Avery shrugged. "Chris stresses when there's a threat of a steal on first base. It's odd to do that on purpose."

I didn't follow baseball enough to add to that comment. I probably should know more. My dad had coached high school ball until his heart attack, and obviously, Chris had played his whole life, but sports just weren't my thing. Even if I had knowledge of it, at the moment, I was too preoccupied with watching Emerson in his pinstripes as he shifted two lengths from the base with a smirk on his face.

I could tell he was messing with the first baseman just by that expression. He moved a bit farther from the bag, taunting the pitcher. All over the stadium, fans were pointing at him. Like they were just waiting to see him make his move. Or maybe they just liked the view.

Couldn't blame them for that.

His long, lean body looked good in the white stripes, but his uniform hid the tight muscles I knew were beneath. Swallowing, I tried to push away the memory of how he looked sprawled out on the couch shirtless as he ate his grilled cheese last night. How the light caught the silver chain on his neck. How every chuckle tightened the muscle and deepened each cut of abs that lined his torso. How his corded forearms lifted the bread to his full lips.

How much my body heated in his proximity. At some point during the night, a switch flipped in my mind. Since I'd met him, I'd known that my brother's best friend was a gorgeous guy that women everywhere wanted, but last night, I found myself falling into that category. Suddenly, I craved him too, and I didn't know what to do about it.

My plan for the evening had been to finish my painting, but instead, I found myself one cushion away, trying not to laugh along with him and enjoying myself while watching reruns of a show I'd seen multiple times.

And now I found I couldn't look away from the third baseman.

He shuffled two steps farther, and the pitcher turned, but by the time the ball left his hand, Emerson was already back on base. With a grin, he waved his hands, and the fans cheered. The Bandits' first baseman tossed the ball back to the pitcher and glared at Emerson. That look, though, didn't stop him from immediately doing it again. He continued his taunting until the pitch count was at two balls and two strikes.

Then as the pitcher started his wind-up, Emerson's lunge got just a hair deeper, and the muscles of his ass tightened for a split second. Then he was moving.

In a blink, he was racing for second. Before the ball even got to the catcher's glove, he was dropping to the dirt, and in the most graceful motion I'd ever seen from Emerson—hell, from any man—he slid toward the bag and popped up to stand back on both feet just as he reached it. The drop-and-lift was pure art in motion. Fluid like the swell of an ocean wave.

The stadium broke out in cheers for yet another stolen base. But Emerson just wiped at the brown dirt on his chest and smirked at the second baseman.

"See?" Wren hollered as she clapped loudly. "Told ya. He's got to be close to leading the league. That man has moves."

"Ones you've seen?" Avery teased.

Of their own accord, my shoulders went rigid. I had no claim on Emerson, but as I studied the tall, thin brunette, my hackles rose. Her straight, bluntly cut black hair just brushed her shoulders. Her almost jet-black eyes popped because of her very naturally applied makeup. High cheekbones, small nose, and deep red lips. She was willowy in a way I'd never have any hope of attaining, even if I lost fifty pounds. If she was Emerson's type, then I definitely wasn't.

And I wanted to smash something.

She whacked a hand lightly against Avery's arm. "I do not sleep with Daddy Wilson's boys. Unlike you, I follow his rule."

My shoulders dropped slightly at the relief I didn't want to feel in that statement.

Avery groaned. "Stop calling my father Daddy Wilson."

Wren's red lips pulled up in a smirk, and she tapped one long red nail against them. "But I do love to watch his boys play."

Tom Wilson had his own box at the stadium. From the looks of it, it was for Avery, who attended just about every home game. Since Pop had moved to Boston, she'd made sure to include him too.

He was currently sitting outside the box in the open-air seats with Wren's parents. From the way he chatted with them, it was clear the three of them did this a lot. Pop was as laid-back and casual as a guy could get, while Wren's parents looked like they were headed to an upscale restaurant after the game.

At the crack of a bat, I zeroed in on the field again. The ball soared high into the sky, straight over the wall at left field, and into the water beyond.

The crowd erupted, the whole stadium alive and roaring.

"Mason's bat is on fire," Wren cheered as Avery screamed.

I tracked Emerson as he rounded third and headed for home. After crossing the plate, he turned back, and when Mason's foot touched the white pentagon, both guys jumped into the air, crashing chests and laughing. Music pounded through the stadium so loudly the seats vibrated. The guys knocked cleats again and broke into an obviously planned dance. They shuffled to one side, their arms moving and their shoulders bouncing in sync, all the way to the dugout as "Shut up and Dance" blared around them.

The crowd was on their feet, bopping right along with them as they hammed it up.

"They're cute, aren't they?" Wren asked, zeroing in on me in my periphery.

Brows pulled together, I turned, eyeing her first, then Avery. "Uh, yeah, I guess."

"I love when they do ‘Moves Like Jagger,' although this is a close second." Avery giggled.

"They have perfected it this season," Wren added.

With a nod, Avery shook her empty beer bottle. "Anyone want another?"

We both declined, and as she wandered off, I couldn't help but turn back to the field.

I'd watched this game my entire life, but suddenly, it all felt different. And I had no idea why.

A handful of Revs players poured out of the dugout and attacked both men with back slaps and giant hugs. The crowd cheered, but for one second, Emerson turned and looked up at us. Almost as if he could see me from way down there. What a silly impossibility. I'd mentioned I was coming today, but I hadn't told him where I was sitting. Still, it felt like he was looking at me, so I lifted a hand and gave him a tiny wave.

He lifted his chin in response and flashed a smile.

My stomach flipped. Holy shit. He was looking at me.

"Emerson has never bothered to look this way before, but I swear that's the fifth time he's done it today." Wren's dark eyes ran over me—from the hair I spent forty minutes curling down to the strappy wedges on my feet—before she focused on my face. I braced for a snide comment about why Emerson would be looking at me. "He told me about your paintings."

My spine went straight. That was the last thing I expected her to say. "What?"

Nodding, she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "We were at a bar a few weeks ago. I asked him about the image on his phone's lock screen. It's an oil painting of the stadium from the water?"

My heart clenched. I'd painted it for Chris last year, and I'd been shocked to find it framed on the wall of his apartment. The bigger shock, though, came yesterday, when I discovered that Emerson was the one who framed it.

"He has a photo of my painting on his phone?" Quickly, I scanned the field, but he was gone.

"He said something about how the water spoke to him."

I swallowed back the emotion welling up inside me at that thoughtful statement. I remembered feeling that way when I saw one of my mother's paintings. Wildflowers. Nothing crazy. Still, something in the way they blew so freely in the breeze called to me. The canvas was still with my dad, hanging above his bed. But the feeling of being captivated by the emotion of the painting was something that had stayed with me.

My mother had always said the mark of a true artist was creating strong feelings in the people viewing the work. Good or bad, it didn't matter. It was the ability to evoke the emotion that was so special. I had come home from second grade crying that someone had called my painting from art gross and told me they never hated something more. But my mother insisted we have a celebration for me that night because my work had spoken so deeply to someone.

"Avery told us you were a graphic designer. I didn't realize you painted too."

I was jarred back to the moment by the question. "It's just a hobby." Shrugging, I nervously twirled my hair. Wren worked with well-known art and artists. The Boston Auction House sold paintings worth thousands, even millions. I painted for the enjoyment, not to make money.

With a slow nod, she snagged her purse from beneath her seat. Then she pulled out a white card and held it out to me.

I cocked my head, confused, but took it from her anyway. Her name was embossed in gold in the center of the thick cardstock. Beneath it, her title, assistant acquisitions manager, was printed. I looked back up and scrutinized her, unsure of what to make of it.

"I help a lot of people sell their hobbies. If you ever find yourself interested in the idea, call me."

A tiny part of my heart soared. How cool would it be to say I'd sold a painting? Especially through the Boston Auction House.

When I quit styling and went back to school, my dream had been to work in graphic design so I could pay the bills and still have time to work with oils and canvas. Maybe start selling them at fairs or to small shops. One professor had encouraged me to do something with my art. But at the time, my boyfriend, Ron, had sneered and scoffed at the idea that I'd ever expect to make money off my silly paintings. I'd given Jake a painting of the New York skyline for Christmas, and he'd kept it in the back of the closet. And then, somewhere along the way, I'd decided that my hobby wasn't something more than a method I used to relax myself. The thought of trying to sell my work and discover no one was interested? Or having Chris and Pop be the only ones to bid on it? It terrified me. Any time I thought about it, I was filled with an intense feeling of dread.

I cleared my throat, slowly shaking my head. "I don't think so."

With a hand on my forearm, she gave me a warm smile. "Keep the card. You might change your mind."

I slipped it into my pocket, but I very much doubted I would.