Page 47 of Houston, We Have a Problem
Thankfully, that means there’s a lot more for me to do here than to keep lying to Houston, and so far I’ve managed to avoid him entirely.
That’s not to say I don’t know exactly where he is at every moment. It’s like I’ve got a tether attached to him now, and it doesn’t matter if I’m on the other side of the ballroom—if he laughs, I hear it. When he moves, my eyes pull in his direction. It’s altogether distracting and frustrating, and I only get through five quick interviews before I’m desperate for a break.
Tempted to peruse the silent auction—signed baseballs and mitts, collector’s baseball cards, coveted box seats for next season’s home games—I instead take a seat at the bar and order myself a soda with a twist of lime to keep me occupied while I subtly watch Houston charm his way across the room.
Seriously, it seems like everyone, no matter how important, wants a chance to rub shoulders with the star pitcher. He takes it all in stride, all smiles despite never having a moment to himself. Tamlin’s whole existence is to give me the confidence and the social status to interact with people and dive deep into conversations, but I’m always glad to wash her away at the end of the night and take a break from her.
Does Houston ever get tired of beingonall the time? I have yet to see him just pause and relax, and he has to be exhausted.
Maybe that’s where the story is. He’s been playing in the majors for eight years, and while he may be young compared to the average populace, twenty-eight as an athlete of his caliber can’t be easy. He hasn’t shown any signs of slowing down, no matter what I said in our interview. How long can he actually keep his lifestyle going?
After I’ve been sitting for ten minutes, working myself up to make the rounds again and talk to more people, my phone buzzes in my clutch at the same time Houston has his phone in hand.
Houston: I was hoping we could talk tonight.
What in the world does that mean? He’s been avoiding me for the last few days—I mean, I’ve been avoiding him too, mostly at Connor’s request—and this feels so out of the blue. I could easily ignore him and keep my focus on the gala, where it should be, but with the determined glint forming in his eyes, I have a feeling he is more likely to leave the party early and come bang on my door if I don’t reply.
We certainly can’t have that. Not when I’m here.
Me: What about? How’s the party, by the way?
He sighs as if he would rather talk about anything except this gala. Is it really that bad? I think it’s quite nice, and the amount of money they’ve raised already is astounding.
Houston: It’s fine. Probably more boring than your thing. How’s your project?
I answer honestly.
Me: A little frustrating, but I’ll figure it out.
Houston: Anything I can do to help?
“Just tell me what you want,” I grumble. That isn’t fair. If I knew what I wanted, or even if I knew how to tell myself that I can’t have what I want, I wouldn’t be making such a mess of all of this. Flirting with him at Big Henry’s was a terrible idea, hence Connor’s instruction to take a step back before I get too emotionally involved. But every minute I spend with Houston convinces me more and more that there can’t be any kind of story here worth all this effort. Connor is just grasping at straws at this point and wasting everyone’s time.
Houston goes to practice every day without fail. He doesn’t drink, doesn’t swear—most of the time—and isn’t even dating anyone. He’s like the Captain America of baseball, the golden boy who has done nothing but good since the moment I arrived in Sun City.
If there’s a story here, it’s that he’s as good as he makes everyone believe.Better. I would love to tell that story, but I can’t see how that would help Enhance in any way.
It might be time to tell Connor that he needs to pull me back to Missouri before I lose more than my boss’s confidence in me. My heart is in grave danger of getting left here in New Mexico.
Me: No, I have to do this myself. You didn’t say what you want to talk about.
Houston: I don’t really know how to put it in a text. Are you going to be up in an hour or so?
Connor told me I have to be at this party until the lights shut off, so no. I won’t be home. But how do I tell him that?
Me: You probably shouldn’t come over. I think I caught a bug or something, and I don’t want to get you sick.
Houston goes rigid, which is kind of adorable but also makes me think I made a bad decision with that one. Especially when his texts come in rapid fire.
Houston: You’re sick?
Houston: You should have told me.
Houston: Do you need anything?
I should have just told him I wasn’t home.
“What’s a pretty thing like you doing here alone?”
