Page 64 of Wild Pitch
It’s almost as if he’s nervous.
And okay, I’m a girl. I have hormones. Sometimes they addle my brain. I blame them for planting the seed of thought in my mind that maybe his weird behavior could be because he’s my blind date. He’s kind of dressed for it, too.
I stretch the fabric of my new dress lower down my thighs. A country singer crones about some long lost love as Starr drives me to the restaurant where the date will be. After having bought me a dress, shoes, a little purse for my phone and keys, and even hiring a stylist to come into a clothing store that he rented out for an hour. For me.
That’s… that’s… I don’t think my hormones can be blamed on this.
I glance at him from the corner of my eye. The stoplight is red and he drums the steering wheel with his thumb. His lefthand rubs his chin, deep set blue eyes trained firmly on the car in front of us. A muscle in his jaw ticks, like whatever he’s so lost in thought about is annoying.
Mierda.
This man is gorgeous.
Yeah, yeah, I knew that. He didn’t go viral last month because of the words he said, but because he has an accent and a face that weakens knees. And his body too. I’ve seen him in various states of dress or undress over the years, regularly ice him, help him relieve cramps, and oversee his workouts. It lands very different to see all that when he’s wearing his uniform or his training clothes. That’s always felt like work.
But earlier today, with his shirt unbuttoned showing all that golden skin, taught with ripples of muscle and a smattering of light brown hair? And his forearm muscles flexing as he rolled up his sleeves?Thathit different. Like a scene straight from his bedroom.
What if my dateisCade Starr?
I tuck my hair behind my ears and they feel much warmer than usual.
I can’t possibly go out with him. First, he’s already seen me at my most unhinged. If I’m not attractive to guys on my baseline setting, I’m downright repellant at my most intense. Second, dating anyone in the team would be like crapping where I eat. If something goes wrong, I’ll be the one whose ass lands in the street.
Third, which by itself is as weighty as the first two points combined: the last thing I want is a pity date. And that’s what he’d be offering, just like when Lucky Rivera immediately asked me out when he found out that I was desperate to find a guy. Starr has never shown any kind of interest for me in that sense anyway, which is how I’d know it’s out of pity.
Well, until today. This whole afternoon has been some real boyfriend shit. Or better, I guess, because my ex never treated me this nicely.
The truck stops moving and I look up from my hands. Starr speaks for the first time in at least half an hour. “Here we are. When you go in, ask for a reservation under your name.”
“Um.” I swallow. “My name or last name?”
He turns to me. “Hope.”
I hope—pun intended—that he doesn’t notice how my breath hitches.
“Okay.” I unfasten my seatbelt and pretend to be way busier with that than I really am. Casually, I ask, “Aren’t you coming too?”
“In a bit.” He offers no further explanation.
And I don’t know what else to say either. Thanking him for all the pampering right now would be weird if he ends up sitting across from me at the same table. I’m just going to play along.
Opening the door, I slide off his truck and he takes out his phone, ignoring me altogether. I close the door and round the truck to the front door of the restaurant. He still doesn’t follow.
“Welcome,” a young hostess says with a million dollar smile. “Do you have a reservation?”
“Yes, under the name Hope.” My mind, ever so helpful, replays the voice of a certain cowboy uttering my name from his lips. My skin, ever so unhelpful, breaks into goosebumps all over.
“Right. Follow me.”
I just figured out why these tiny purses are called clutches because I clutch mine for dear life as I follow her. The restaurant has some busy tables, so at least he didn’t rent the whole thing this time. But it’s still spacious enough that it screams money. The lighting fixtures are low over the tables, so that only the customers and their food are plainly visible. The rest of the decoris dark, intimate, walls made of glass with gentle cascades of water trickling down the sleek surfaces. Even a Coke here must cost a fortune.
She guides me through the place almost to the back, close to the bar, and when she steps aside it’s to reveal my table.
It’s not empty, though, like it would’ve been if Starr was trying to be all mysterious. Rather, there’s a man already waiting.
And it’s none other than Logan Kim.
My jaw drops so bad that the hostess has to clear her throat not to laugh.
