Page 7 of Finding Out

But between one blink and the next, a switch flipped and the heat in his eyes vanished.

Swallowing thickly, he spun toward the bar. I was still holding on to his arm, so I moved too.

“You’re playing with fire, baby girl.”

The words left his lips in a growl, like he was trying to convince himself to think of me as an off-limits teenage girl rather than a thirty-year-old woman.

“I’m not a child,” I snapped.

“Trust me, I’m entirely too aware of that.” Sidling up to the bar, he gave it a tap with two fingers. “Can I get a scotch on the rocks and a cranberry mimosa?”

With a nod, the bartender moved for the scotch.

“You’ve been watching me, Daddy Wilson.” I’d set my champagne flute down a while ago, and yet he knew what I was drinking.

He leaned in close, his nose almost brushing my jaw.

“Years, Wren. I’ve been watching you for years.” His breath danced over my ear, and my heart skipped a beat. Snapping straight, he yanked his glass off the bar. “Have a good night.”

It might have been a month ago, but every moment of that interaction was so vivid in my mind, it felt like yesterday.

Despite all that, this weekend was not the time to needle him. Because this was business.

For a single heartbeat after my eyes met his on the airplane, I’d been shocked. But the clues clicked into place quickly. Not only had he been passionate aboutStonehengewhen we’d discussed it forever ago, but he’d always been a fan of the arts. My first trip to the Boston Museum of Fine Arts was courtesy of Tom. Avery had been bored out of her mind, but sixteen-year-old me had listened to him talk about how art could tell entire stories in one beat of time. I had been fascinated. Part of my awe that day was because he was this cool star athlete I had a massive crush on, but another large part was caused by his passion for each watercolor.

As I turned away from the concierge, his bright eyes locked on to me, making it harder to breathe. Typically he didn’t meet my eyes. Or look at me much at all. Today, though, he wasn’t avoiding me, and the intensity of his stare had me on edge.

“Ready?” I asked, trying not to wince at the crack in my voice.

“That was quick.” His words were low and his lips hardly moved.

The gruff tone somehow felt like a compliment and sent a thrill up my spine.

“I called this morning and requested the room be ready early, and then I checked in on the mobile app on the way over.” I knew Tom well enough to know he hated wasting time.

“Well done.” His mouth twitched like maybe he was happy, but since the man never smiled, it was impossible to tell. He held out an arm, gesturing to the elevator.

Quickly, I headed that way, and as luck would have it, we stepped right on. The silence in the small stainless-steel box was surprisingly comfortable. Normally I’d try to fill the void with words, but Tom hated nonsense, and the knowledge that he didn’t expect conversation put me at ease.

When the doors opened, he held them in place and waited for me to exit before stepping out behind me. I wasn’t short by any means, but I felt small when this well over six-foot-tall man hovered behind me.

I pulled my shoulders back as I moved toward the suite door. Normally professionalism came easy to me. I boxed clients into spaces that kept them at arm’s length. With Tom, though, that routine was much harder.

Erin’s warning ran through my head as we made our way down the hall. When she’d given it, I’d been lost and maybe a little offended. I wasn’t the type of person who needed a reminder like that. But in hindsight, she was cautioning me, knowing that I was going to spend the weekend with my best friend’s father. Her concern was not about a hookup. Not that Tom would ever let that happen, even if we’d shared a few moments and despite the hints of this electric chemistry that arced between us. No, Erin’s warning was about balancing my familiarity with him with his preference for working with a distant professional. That was okay. Great, really. Because I desperately wanted to prove I could be that.

I pushed the door open, reining in the awe that consumed me as I took in the gorgeous sprawling suite in front of me.

“Let me know if this isn’t acceptable.” I waved my hand, feigningindifference, gesturing to the space—a living room and full kitchen flanked by bedrooms and a balcony with a gorgeous view of Central Park.

“We both know it’s over the top,” he muttered. Though he must have made well over a hundred million dollars between his pitching career in baseball, sponsorships, and during his time coaching the Revs, he wasn’t much for extravagance, and he never flaunted his wealth.

I gave him a sheepish shrug. “Sometimes it’s fun to be over the top.”

Rather than growl in response like I expected, his lips twitched again. “Sometimes.” He strode toward the master bedroom and, unsurprisingly, dropped my bag inside the door.

He turned back, a scowl on his face. “You’re staying here. No arguments.”

Hands clasped in front of me, I nodded.

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