Page 17 of Caught Stealing

“Not quite yet. We still have about a month, but I can’t wait. Statistics isn’t exactly a fun subject for most people,” she admits and glances up at me, no doubt to judge my interest in her work.

“I can appreciate how hard you must work. Teaching is a difficult profession, and mathematics takes brains.” This earns me a sweet smile and a giggle. Dang this girl is too sweet, too dainty, too perfect. There must be something wrong with her, and I’m kind of eager to find out what it is so she’ll seem more real. Whatever it is can’t possibly deter me from pursuing her.

Slow your roll, Rossi. You just met her.

And…she’s kind of distant.

My brain works in overdrive to control my frantically beating heart. There is beautiful, and then there is Lottie Clarke beautiful. Her pink lips are almost a perfect Cupid’s bow, and I swear if she pulls that lip balm out one more time, I’m not sure I’ll be able to control my urge to kiss her. But looks aren’t everything, so I commit to seeing past her face and into her heart. If what Owen says about the app’s success is true, then I have to put in the effort to get to know this woman.

“Thank you,” she says, but I’m so distracted by her lips I’ve forgotten what I said to earn her thanks. Fortunately, we approach the lot, so I fish for my keys to change the subject. This seemed easier when we were messaging. Even the phone conversation flowed better, but I think it’s on me. It’s me that’s the problem here, not her.

I think. I don’t remember how to do this.

“There’s mine,” I say and point toward the monster black truck parked in the shadiest spot I could find. I dump the empty basket in the rear seat and slam the door shut. After locking it, I do something really forward. And dumb. I offer my hand to her and she stares down at it as if I’m debating whether to smack her or run off with her.

My ego takes a massive hit, not because she rejects me, but because I can’t figure out why I would even put myself out there like that on a first date. Isn’t that something teens do? College aged maybe? How do people in their thirties even date? What is expected? All sorts of questions bombard my brain while I stand like a fool with my hand out, palm up, waiting for her to decide to take it or run.

The sweet sigh of relief that slips from my lips when she slides her fingers over my palm is almost audible. She’s hesitant, but links her fingers with mine and lets me maneuver her to the inside part of the sidewalk as we head toward River Street. It’s been ages since I held a woman’s hand, but it feels nice. It feels good, and I think maybe I owe my best friend an apology. If nothing else, I get to see what it’s like to go out with a woman who has zero expectations from me as a ball player.

“How did you get the scar on your chin?” I ask, desperate for more conversation with her.

“Oh, gosh. An incident with a hockey stick a few years ago. I got three stitches and everything.”

I want to ask her more about it, especially get some elaboration on the hockey part of it, but she seems to tense after she mentions it. She clears her throat.

“We better hurry or we’ll miss the sunset,” she says and looks up at me. This is a sight I can get used to.

I pick up the pace because missing out on that would be a shame, especially when all I want to do is sit on a park bench and talk to Lottie until the stars come out. We’ve only barely scratched the surface, and I want to know everything there is to know about her. I pray it isn’t one sided. Maybe she’s nervous?

“Tell me about your family. You said you have a sister.”

She tucks her hair behind her ear and smiles. She’s got a bright white set of teeth, like an actress, and it only makes her smile more stunning. “I do. She’s five years older than me. Stay at home mom of two, and her husband is in the Navy.”

“Really? That’s cool. I have a sister too, but she’s single. She’s a lot younger than me, though. She’s only twenty and she’s in college studying culinary arts.”

“Did she pack the dinner?” With a sly smile, Lottie skips over a crack in the sidewalk and taunts me at the same time.

“She did not. I can make sandwiches, believe it or not.”

“Ah, he packs a mean picnic basket, has good manners, and likes dogs. So how are you still single?” she asks, narrowing her eyes. “Are you a closet serial killer?”

Oh, now I get it. The banter. We are missing the flirty banter from our texting and phone call. This, I can do. She makes me laugh without even trying, but her joke isn’t going to encourage me to spill the beans about my profession just yet. “No, not a serial killer. I'm just picky about dating.”

“And yet you let your friend convince you to join a dating app?”

“Yeah. Something like that,” I say and try to think of ways to change the subject. “Want to go on a riverboat ride? I’ve heard it’s a lot of fun.” A lot of fun? Where did I hear that? I haven’t, but it’s all I can think of to steer the conversation away from work and toward that touch and go style of flirting we established early on.

“I think they’re reservation only for evening rides. Maybe another time?”

I squeeze her hand and nod. “You’re probably right. I guess strolling and talking it is. We can plan those next few dates we’ve already committed to,” I tease.

She blushes and ducks her head. “Depends. A strike and a near miss with the juice box? I might get a real injury on the next date.”

“Ah, but you forgave me for the juice box incident, remember? Said it could happen to anyone.”

She arches her eyebrows and the left side of her mouth pulls into a smirk. Well. I did not expect her to throw snarky facial expressions my way. Not this sweetheart, but I like that I’m getting to see another side of her.

“Tell me more about yourself. Your profile was sparse,” she says. “You said it was accurate, which is great, but I’d like to know more.”

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