Page 36 of Catching Feeling

Her blue eyes roll. “I wasn’t, but as always, your ego makes itself known. Thank you for that.”

“I’m confident. Not egotistical. If I had to guess, baseball is to me what your writing is to you.”

Her nostrils flare at the mention of her secret. I’m not saying it to throw it in her face but to compare its importance.

Baseball is my life and my future. It’s something I’m proud as fuck of. Sometimes it feels like she thinks I’m just a dumb jock, and I fucking hate that shit. If she would stop pushing me away at every turn, we might actually be able to get to know each other beyond the assumptions we have. We could at least be friends.

“That’s fair. Sorry, I wasn’t judging you. I know how important baseball is to you.”

I nod, tossing her a grin, playing it off. Part of me wants to bring up last night and ask if she wants to do it again, but she's clearly avoiding the topic. And I already know the answer.

“So, I’m going to go grocery shopping,” she announces as she sets the trophy back in its spot on my shelf. “Wanna come?”

“Wow, Vivienne, are you asking me on a date? Pretty bold of you.”

“Sorry, I don’t pick out fruit together until at least the third date. Way too intimate for a first date.”

I love that her lips curve into a smile and that she rolls her eyes at my harmless flirting. But what do I love more? That as much shit as I give her, she gives it right back to me.

“Touché. I would love to go grocery shopping with you. But I need to know if you’re the crazy type to make a list and actually shop from it?” I drag my hand through my hair and push it out of my eyes. It’s getting long as fuck, but I can’t cut it until after our first game.

I’m too superstitious for that shit.

Viv brings her hand to her chest and gasps. “Only psychopaths do that, Reese. I’m more of a shove everything that catches my eye into the basket as I go kinda girl.”

“Oooh. My kinda girl,” I retort without thinking.

Her cheeks heat and a blush spreads along them. Damn, I think that’s a first.

I made Vivienne Brentwood fucking blush.

“Okay, well, I’ll, uh… just grab my bag. Do you want to drive, or should I?” she asks.

“Is your car still making a weird noise?”

Pulling her lip between her teeth, she nods. “Yeah, I’m going to try and get a quote this week.”

Not if I can fucking help it. It’s not safe for her to drive around in a vehicle that may break down on her on the highway.

I just have to find out how to make it happen without repeating the other night.

“I’m driving, but none of your judginess about my playlist.”

“TAYLOR SWIFT? Why am I not even a little bit surprised?” Viv says, her eyes sparkling with amusement when I turn on my Range Rover and “Style” plays through the speaker.

“Listen, she’s an icon, and I’m a fucking fan. It doesn’t make me any less of a man because I’m a Swiftie, alright?”

People can say what they want, but I don’t give a shit. I paid an assload of money for VIP tickets for me and Rosie and even wore fucking friendship bracelets, that’s how comfortable I am with my masculinity.

She holds up her hands in surrender. “Never said it did. I’m glad you feel so passionately about it. I’m not really a fan, but I respect her as an artist.”

I pull out of the parking lot, then onto the highway, and glance over at her. “What’s your vibe, then?”

“Nineties alternative. Blink 182, Nirvana, Matchbox Twenty, Train. The classics.” She glances down at my phone in the console between us and swipes it. “No passcode? That’s brave of you.”

I shrug. “Nothing to hide.”

She doesn’t respond, just hums and taps away at my phone screen. A second later, the station changes from Taylor to Sugar Ray.

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