Page 56 of 10 Ways to Accidentally Fall in Love

Logan hums, and I wonder what he truly thinks of Brad’s presence tonight. He doesn’t seem upset, but I suppose if he and Brad have been talking for the past week-plus, he probably knew what to expect, at least a little.

The two of us chat a bit about our families as the first pitch is thrown, the noise in the stadium increasing. Logan is easy to talk to, but despite him ticking all my theoretical boxes, I find I’m simply not invested in the date like I should be.

Of course, I know why that is. And when my oblivious, oh-so-committed wingman returns a minute later and my heart races at the mere sight of him, I wonder if there’s simply no getting over Brad.

“Look,” he says excitedly, passing a burger and fries off to Logan before handing what appears to be an entire pizza to me. Then he holds up his prize. “They had corn dogs.”

Oh no.

Brad looks ridiculously happy as he retakes his seat, the breaded hot dog on a stick in his hand. I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, I should look away. I should absolutely look away.

I don’t.

Brad’s tongue comes out to play first, licking a broad swipe up the entire length of the corn dog—base to tip—in an effort to collect the ketchup that’s dripping down the side. Before retreating, said tongue flicks across the top, a sight that has me stifling a groan. And then, if that wasn’t enough, he proceeds to stuff half the thing in his mouth like there’s a medal at stake for eating it in as few bites as humanly possible. Even Logan sounds impressed by the display.

That probably shouldn’t bother me as much as it does.

When a cheer goes up around the stadium, I whip my gaze away. I put all my focus into the game as I eat my pizza, knowing I can’t be taken by Brad’s tongue or his mouth or the happy noises he made as he practically choked on his footlong. I can’t be thinking about his enthusiasm or wondering how advanced his deep-throating skills are. Ican’t.

I shouldn’t.

A curious hum has me turning Logan’s way. “You have a little something,” he says, making like he’s going to touch my cheek.

“I got it,” Brad cuts in loudly, tugging me around by the chin. He holds my face as he wipes a napkin across the corner of my mouth, his brow furrowed in careful concentration. Once done,he gives me a beaming smile, andfuck. It feels as if my heart might beat right out of my chest.

You’re perfect, I want to scream at him.You’re killing me. Kiss me, kiss me, kiss me.

Oblivious to my inner turmoil, Brad’s touch feathers away. Logan clears his throat, and I try to control my racing thoughts.

“So,” my date says, his burger and fries gone now. “Can I ask about the matching bags you guys are wearing?”

“Our fanny packs?” Brad says happily, crowding into my space again. Not that he went that far away to begin with. “They’re awesome, right? Look at this.”

Brad unzips my fanny pack, an action that has no right to turn me on, and pulls out chapstick, gum, and even a tiny bottle of hand sanitizer. I had no clue he put those things in there.

“Super functional,” he says, zipping it back up. “Plus it really accentuates Joey’s waist, don’t you think?”

Brad proceeds to stroke my stomach above the fanny pack almost absentmindedly, and my core clenches tight. Logan, rightfully so, doesn’t seem to know what to say. He watches Brad’s hand move over my shirt before lifting his gaze to me, an eyebrow subtly raised.

I don’t know what to say either.

After a small eternity, I shift Brad’s hand away, not sure how much more of his platonic fondling I can handle. He doesn’t seem perturbed. But he does grab a slice of pizza off the box in my lap, sending me a wink before taking a bite.

As the innings pass, things only get weirder. It starts when Logan gets up to use the restroom, taking our trash to toss out on the way. Once he’s gone, Brad starts fiddling with my fanny pack again, loosening and tightening the strap, making sure the buckle is clasped tight, shifting my shirt around until it’s lying flat. Seemingly satisfied, he leans back and nods.

“My name looks good on you,” he declares, casual as can be.

I practically choke.

Brad starts singing Beyonce’s “Single Ladies (Put a Ring on It)” under his breath, complete with hand motions, and I wonder if this is a fever dream.

“Hey, wanna switch seats?” he asks after a minute.

I eye him curiously, but he’s watching the game again. “Why?”

“This is a good spot. Great view. Figured you might want to enjoy it.”

“We have nearly the same exact view,” I point out. “I’m sitting right next to you.”

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