Page 23 of The Fake Out

Martinez: We’re at Taps on 8th. We were about to tell you.

Streaks: Be there in five

Streaks: Assholes

Gi: Good game. Congrats on your 15th stolen base.

Me: Wow you watched it?

Gi: Avery had Pop and me over for dinner.

Me: Ah, so not by choice.

Gi: GIF of an eye roll

Gi: They still haven’t been back to work on the bathroom.

Me: I’ll check in with them when I get home.

Gi: Sorry - you’re probably out having fun - I’ll let you be.

Me: Picture of himself sitting shirtless on his hotel bed.

Gi: I swear Chris talks about how you’re always out at a club or a bar…

Me: Not feeling it lately.

Gi: How come?

The buzzing of my phone in my hand startled me so badly I jumped.

Why was he calling me? Emerson had texted randomly while he’d been gone for the last four days, but he hadn’t called. I glanced down at my tank top and shorts with a wince. My hair was a mess, and I was covered in paint. Even my chest had green streaks on it.

Frowning at the phone, I slid the button to answer the FaceTime request. “What’s wrong?”

For a beat, he blinked at me, silent, then he cleared his throat. “Nothing. I just thought that if we were chatting, this would be easier.”

“We’re chatting?”

He leaned back against his headboard and crossed his arms over his bare chest. He was on the slim side, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t cut. I tried not to focus on the swells of muscles that rippled across his arms as he got settled. Instead, I focused on his green eyes, bright and sparkling as always. Did he wear contacts or use special drops to make them do that? Because mine had never twinkled like that.

He chuckled. “What do you call it when two people are asking and answering questions back and forth?”

I rose a brow at the mocking tone, but he just smiled in return.

“What are you painting?”

“I didn’t say I was.”

“Oh, I didn’t know you were into war paint. Looks cute on you.” He leaned closer to the screen like he was trying to get a better look.

“Did you call just to mock me?” I crossed my free arm over my chest and huffed.

His attention drifted low, and he sucked in his bottom lip, but quickly looked away from the screen. “I can’t remember why I called.” He shrugged, glancing back at the phone. “Are you finishing up the zoo signs?”

“No,” I breathed, officially giving up trying to understand why he’d called. “They’re already done.” I turned back to the painting I was working on for Pop for Father’s Day. He’d always loved the house in the spring, when the weeping cherries and daffodils bloomed. So this last year, I took a picture, and I’d been working on recreating it on canvas for him. “The Zoo is supposed to be hanging them for Friday night.”

“I can’t wait to see them. I’ll have to swing by one of these days.”

---