Page 99 of Wild Catch
Bésame, a voice says in my head, sounding suspiciously like Oscar D’León.
I desperately want Logan to lean down the rest of the way—that measly fraction of an inch—and press his lips against mine. I can’t take another moment of being in his arms, pressed against his hot chest while I drink in his breath.
Oh. My Word. I hadn’t realized that Logan had chest hair.
It feels so silly to only notice it now. He’s clearly a guy with healthy testosterone levels who can grow a solid beard on his perfect face. Maybe it was the chest tattoos what created an optical illusion, or the fact that I’ve kept the PDA so restricted that this is my first time touching his chest. Heck, it’s our first time being this close from the front. Not even during the pool party last week did I get so handsy.
Speaking of, my traitorous hands splay wider over his taught skin, the pads of my fingers memorizing the texture of that surprising chest hair. I wish I could explore further. I wish I had the right to.
I make the mistake of lifting my eyes to his and every muscle of my body tenses. What I see in his gaze is pure, unfiltered desire. Like if I let him, he’d pick me up in his arms and cart me somewhere dark and secluded, and it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to know what would happen next.
But that’s the issue. I can’t do that. I can’t be someone’s secret affair anymore.
Last week Logan made it very clear that nothing more is ever on the table with him, and the reminder is like a bucket of ice cold water.
“Whew,” Reynaldo says all of a sudden. “You were right, Rose. The about-to-kiss pose is even more tense than a real kiss. This is definitely going to move issues.”
I lean my head back a little and give out an awkward laugh. “That’s great! But, erm, are we done? I’m starting to cramp.”
“Yes! I think I have enough shots for this issue. But if you two are open to a couple photoshoot let me know.” He winks at us.
I’m still laughing that alien laugh when I push Logan away from me like he’s burning me. And he is. One more second of this and he’s going to stay branded in my skin forever.
Maybe it’s a good thing that nothing will happen between us. I’m afraid that loving Logan Kim would be all too consuming.
He eases off the wall and retreats along with my not so gentle shove, but his hand grabs onto my waist more firmly, like he’s debating not letting me go at all. With shallow breathing, I manage to extricate myself to follow after theSPORTYcrew and Audrey escorting them out of the field.
Like it’s an itch I must cure ASAP, I glance back and catch Logan leaning back against the padded wall on the same spot, watching me go as he buttons up his shirt.
Facing forward, I pick up the pace and pretend like I don’t notice the catcalling of the players as we leave them behind. I don’t even know how I manage to stay calm as I say my farewells to the visitors without giving away that inside I’m a jittery mess.
Once I’m alone in the corridor, I speed walk my way into the women’s restroom near the cafeteria. I check that the stalls are empty and proceed to have my little menty breakie.
“Oh my word, oh my word,” I repeat to myself as I pace back and forth, my eyes watering violently.
One thing is being attracted to Logan—he’s impossibly freaking beautiful, no matter how much I used to deny it at first—but another is this.
I can’t possibly have fallen for him. There’s no way my feelings are that deep.
“Ugh.” I squeeze the fabric of my shirt—his, actually, the one he gave me a week ago—over my chest, as if somehow that could counter the pain of betraying myself.
Because that’s exactly how this feels, like I’m letting myself down for being in the same spot that I promised myself I wouldn’t ever be in again.
I’m in love with a baseball player. Again. And not just any player… the worst one of all. The one who wants me but not enough.
Swallowing hard, I lean against the sink, watching myself in the mirror. “Didn’t you promise never to shed tears over a baseball player again?” I ask myself with a shaky, choked up voice.
Opening the faucet, I splash enough water on my face to wash them all away. It takes a million paper towels to dry my face and blot my soaked top. When I look semi normal, I finally make my way to my office where I will grab my desk cardigan and use it to replace this shirt. I don’t want to be reminded ofhimfor the rest of the day if I can help it.
Of course, there’s not a moment’s rest because my boss hounds me the second I walk into the marketing office. “There she is, our best actress.”
And I don’t know if they’re mocking me or what, but everyone else pops over from their cubicles—clapping.
“That was an amazing performance,” one of them giggles.
“Totally believable! The chemistry was scorching.” Another gives me a double thumbs up.
“At this rate I wouldn’t be surprised if the guy catches actual feelings for you.”
