Page 8 of The Curveball

He starts to respond immediately, but I hold a finger to his mouth. A bit of insanity on my part because now I’m staring at those lips and thinking things I’d like to forget.

“Nope,” I say. “I told you to give it some thought.”

He pauses a total of ten seconds. “You’re a King, Birdie—”

“We talked about Birdie.”

“And that means you’re part of the family,” he barrels on, ignoring me. “I look out for my family. What do we know about this guy?”

We. I roll my eyes. It’s annoying and sort of cute in the same breath the way he always sayswe. Like I really matter to a guy like him.

The truth is, being part of Griffin’s family isn’t special. Not when he views everyone from the players on the team to the teenagers who sell hot dogs as part of his family. I’m another face he includes in his fan club, and he’s wrong. We’re not close. We’llnever beclose.

I refuse to even dip my toe into the possibility. My reasons are my own.

When I stay quiet, Griffin picks up one of my notebooks, inspecting the spiral edge like he’s never seen one before. “Is he a fan of the team, or romance novels? Tell me what we’re walking into here.”

“Wearen’t walking into anything,” I say, snatching the notebook back. “I am going on a date with one of the team’s analysts because Alice thought we might have a nice time. Skye told me to invite him tonight since it will be a good group setting.”

“Wow. I sort of thought I’d have to pry that out a bit more.” Griffin furrows his brow. “He’s one of our brains? How’d I not hear about this?”

“Must be rough knowing not everyone shares every piece of information with you.”

“It is actually, thanks for checking.”

I pinch my lips together. He missed my sarcasm completely, and sounds so . . .adorablyserious. Griffin even rubs his chest as if his heart aches from the truth he was left in the dark.

“Look, I’m actually going to give an effort with this setup,” I say. “I’d appreciate you keeping a solid distance and not making fun of me. You’re thirty-two-years-old, it’s beneath you.”

“Make fun of you?” Griffin’s mouth drops like I stabbed him through the gut. “When have I ever made fun of you?”

I hold up my fingers and check off my predetermined list. “Birdie . . .”

“It’s a cute name.”

“. . .The way you make lewd noises when you think I’m writing one of ‘those scenes’.”

“Setting the mood.”

“. . . In fact, whenever you ask about my books, it’s dripping in irony. So, I’m pretty sure every time you open your mouth, you’re subtly teasing me.”

Griffin goes quiet. For a total of five seconds. “I’m not making fun of your books. Cross my heart. I like updates, and it’s cool to see an author in the wild.”

A brow arches. I can’t tell if he’s serious or not. In my experience, most men like Griffin Marks have little appreciation for romance novels unless they think it’s going to get their lady in the mood.

He doesn’t take issue with my silence and rambles on. “And about tonight, I’m sincerely checking in on you to make sure you’re good. I know you don’t like the small talk, and odds are the guy is going to ask about what you do for a living. But don’t let him make you feel like you owe him any explanation. I know it bugs you.”

“You knowwhatbugs me?”

“That people think romance doesn’t have meat, and you’re some airhead.” He shoots me with his fingers, a shadow of frustration coating his honey-pot eyes.

Holy—it’s like he cracked open the top of my head and peeked into my personal thoughts.

My mouth parts. “How . . . how did you know I . . .”

The words won’t come. It’s true. Whatever it is, people think romance isn’t difficult to write. I’ve had more people tell me they only read thrillers, or otherworld fantasy. Then, they’ll go on about the world building, or the intellect, or the cunning it takes to write such books.

The truth is, despite Dallas Anderson giving me season tickets, my book didn’t sell that well. If it had, life would be different. Maybe IOUs would be paid back, maybe I could be free of scrutiny and toeing the line.

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