Page 17 of The Fake Out

“I’m gonna…” Without finishing her sentence, she padded away, the sound of her feet on the floor almost imperceptible.

I wanted to kick myself, but what the hell should I have done? Kiss her? If she were any other woman, that’s exactly what I would have done, because I wanted to so badly. But Christian was my best friend, the guy who’d been there for me when I literally had no one. And I wouldn’t fuck that up by casually hooking up with his sister.

Regardless of how impressive and fucking gorgeous Gianna was, I didn’t have more than causal in me. My contract with the Revs was up in four months, and if that didn’t get extended, I had no idea what I’d do or how I’d support myself, let alone have the bandwidth to care for another person while I was going through that crisis. Gianna wasn’t the type to need to be taken care of, but she deserved a partner who had a purpose. One who brought value to the relationship. Not an unemployable slouch who’d mooch off her. If baseball didn’t work out, I didn’t even have a degree to fall back on. Unlike most players, I’d skipped college to play in the minors. If baseball was no longer a possibility, then who was I?

With each day my agent heard nothing, I felt less confident that I’d be a Rev next year. There weren’t other teams lining up either. My only option would be to go back to the minors. Spend ten months in some small town far away.

I glanced over my shoulder at Gianna, who was at her easel across the room again. Her back was to me as she stared at the painting in front of her. The skyline on her canvas was more interesting than the one out the windows. Her ability to pull things in and make them more was awe-inspiring. All her work was filled with this emotional vulnerability that she rarely expressed anywhere else. A softness that I could only guess lurked under the surface. And shit, if it didn’t fascinate me.

As much as I couldn’t cross lines with her, I couldn’t leave this awfulness hanging between us either.

“Want to learn to flip grilled cheese?” I asked.

Her head snapped my way. “What?”

I pulled the pan off the stovetop. The buttered bread had heated enough that all three layers of cheese were starting to melt. I held it out above the counter so she could see, and with a flick of the wrist, I tossed the bread into the air and caught it again, uncooked side down.

Almost unwillingly, her mouth pulled up at one corner. “Tricky.”

I nodded. “Want to learn to be tricky too?”

Finally, I got an almost full grin.

“What makes you think I need to learn?” With one brow lifted, she pushed off her small stool and strode towardme with a look of determination in her eye.

I set the sauté pan down so she could grip the handle. In one smooth motion, she picked it up and flipped the grilled cheese again.

Eyes rolling, she scoffed. “You’re not the only one who can do tricks.”

“Damn, girl. Nice.” I laughed, elated not only because she could do it, but because she’d so willingly come over to play with me. “Can you do two flips?”

She sighed like I exhausted her, but instead of turning on her heel and walking away like I expected, she took the pan back. Turned out she could flip twice, so I did a triple flip and handed the pan back. But she didn’t have my skills. She gave it a good old-fashioned try, then tried again as we finished up the sandwiches, but she couldn’t beat me.

Once we had our sandwiches on plates, I wandered to the living room. “Want to watch a movie?”

Rather than giving me a firm answer one way or the other, she shrugged and eyed the television.

Taking that as a yes, I pulled up my watch list.

The second the list appeared, she let out a harsh scoff. “I’m not watching Avery’s movies.”

With my lips pressed together, I scanned the screen. It was loaded full of several of the best rom-coms out there. “I love these. I couldn’t pick a favorite. You’ve heard me talk about the chills I get from a good happily ever after.” A sigh escaped me, unbidden, and I couldn’t help but smile. I loved seeing people end up happy. It was a drug I couldn’t get enough of.

“They depress me.”

“Depress you?” I shifted on the couch and frowned at her. Of all the snarky responses I could have predicted she’d come up with, that wasn’t one of them.

She picked up the sandwich, keeping her focus trained on it, clearly trying to ignore my question, and took a bite. “Wow, Em, these are really good.”

I’d humor her for a minute. “It’s the pepper jack. Perfect little kick to the gooey goodness.”

After her second bite, she hummed. “I think it’s the play between the Gouda and the jack. You get that savory strong flavor, but with the bite of the spice in the jack.”

“Exactly.” I took a swig of my beer, preparing to return to my question. I wasn’t sure why I was harping on it, other than I wanted to understand Gianna.

This same need to know more about her had hit me the first time I saw her artwork. The depth of the dark water, almost lonely in front of the city of Boston, with its bright shiny lights, had entranced me. Like it was speaking to me because, so often, I felt like the water. Alone in a crowd. When Chris had told me that his sister painted it, my heart lurched oddly in my chest. I’d always thought Gi was beautiful, but since that moment, I hadn’t been able to curb my curiosity about her.

“So,” I hedged, “why are rom-coms depressing?”

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