Page 169 of Catch Me
“This sounds like an exciting story,” Brooks noted.
“It was more tedious than anything. Would put a damper on things for the romantics, so that was my PSA for y’all.”
His eyes landed on me again. The hostility was evident, and it wasn’t something I felt like dealing with.
“Key,” I said to Sen, holding out my hand. As soon as he handed it to me, I headed down the hall.
“You’re welcome!” he called after me.
Once I made it into the elevator, I leaned against the wall and tipped my head back. There was a mirror-like ceiling, which gave me an unwanted glimpse of myself. My hair was messy, probably from sleeping on the plane, and my jacket was a little crumpled.
Hell, I’d look at me in disgust, too, if I was him.
Before the doors closed, someone else came in. I saw him in the mirror above me, which was how I knew he stared at me for longer than was normal.
Tipping my head to the side, I looked at the guy. He was already watching me, and he smiled when our eyes met. His were dark, almost black, just like his hair. It was styled nicely, and he was dressed like someone who actually belonged here—a stylish pea coat over nice blue jeans with stylish brown boots that had squared-off toes.
“Hey,” I said.
“Hey there. You look tired.”
I chuckled. “I am.”
“That wasn’t an insult, just so you know. It works on you.”
“Uh, thanks. I work hard on this zombified look.”
“Let me guess. You’re on a business trip.”
“Nah. World Series.”
His eyes lit up. “What a coincidence. Me too.”
“Oh, yeah? Who are you rooting for?”
The corner of his lips turned up. “Call me biased, but I’m a Red Sox guy, through and through.”
“You live here, then?”
“My place is a couple hours out of the city,” he explained. “I’d rather die than wake up early to get to the game.”
“Sound logic.”
“I’m a sensible guy.”
“Yeah, but it looks like we’re rooting for different teams, man. I wouldn’t call a Red Sox guy sensible, to be honest.”
“Doesn’t mean we can’t be friends, though.”
I studied him, not really sure what to say to that. I couldn’t call myself good at spotting certain kinds of men, but this one seemed pretty clear to me. He also looked vaguely familiar.
“Roman,” I said, holding out my hand.
He shook it firmly, gripping it for a little too long. “Amir.”
The doors opened, and I verified that it was my floor. “Nice to meet you, Amir. Don’t hold this against me, but I hope you strike out tomorrow.”
Clearly, he was a good sport, because he laughed. “Seems like I already struck out.”
