Page 76 of The Map of Nova and Dev

“I know.” My gaze slides sideways as I grin, embarrassed. “I mean, I don’t know what all that roster stuff means yet, but I’ve spent the last forty-eight hours running through the ins and outs of the unpredictable pro-baseball life. I still want to see him. Even if all it means is congratulating him.”

twenty-nine | nova

I’m sweating.

And not just because it’s eighty-five degrees outside with a hundred percent humidity, and I’m in a pants suit. It’s nearing nine at night, and I’m standing on the doorstep of Devin’s temporary home, a long-term hotel suite two blocks from the stadium, unable to bring my fist up to knock.

While I left my suit jacket in the car and am wearing a sleeveless crop top with my high-waisted pants, nothing could cool me off at this point. I’ve been stewing since Leo gave me the address three days ago. The team returned home Monday night after the final game in the Mets series and have played at home the last three days. He’s playing baseball blocks from where I work and live, and it has killed me watching him through a television screen and not in person, but it’s for the best.

Thankfully, I’ve had a couple late nights at the office, getting acclimated to wrap my mind around seeing him. Today he had an afternoon game, making this his first night off since he joined the team. They don’t have an off day until months end, so I can’t miss this opportunity.

Deep breaths, Nova. He’s going to be happy to see you.

Before I talk myself out of it, I tap my knuckles on room 216. Seconds pass like eternities as I wait, the rustling of movement traveling from the other side.

A woman with a brown-to-blonde ombre bob and short, edgy bangs answers the door, and I almost apologize for getting the wrong room when her face registers as familiar.

With a wrinkled brow, she says, “Nova.”

Arteries stop their flow, and my lungs hold the oxygen hostage.Say something. Anything.“Hi. Palmer, right?”

Shuffling drowns out her reply as Devin appears beyond her shoulder. He’s dressed exactly as he was in our hotel rooms: a fitted T-shirt and athletic shorts. His damp hair pushed back and falling every which way. “Nova?”

“Hey, Dev.”

His dark brown eyes scan me from head to toe like I’m a mirage. And at the moment, I wish I was. This was a bad idea.

“I’m really sorry to intrude. I didn’t realize…” I can’t very well say I didn’t realize Palmer would be with him. “I didn’t mean to—”

“What are you doing here?”

I force my mouth into a wide grin, squashing the impulse to flash jazz hands and conceal my splintering heart. “I live here now.”

“In Miami?”

“Yeah, just moved in last weekend.” My eyes stray to Palmer, acknowledging her presence so as not to be rude, but one glance her way—at his side—churns my insides.

I didn’t get much of a look at Palmer that winter in Vermont. But she’s beautiful. The opposite of me in every way. The brunette to my blonde, a sassy blunt cut to my long tresses. A delicate silver hoop hooks her nose, while my only piercings are in my earlobes. In her tank top, her left shoulder is exposed, showing off a cluster of small blossoms and peony-like flowers curving down her bicep and another bunch inked on her forearm. Why wouldn’t Devin win her back? She’s both feminine and badass.

“It was actually the same day you got your debut with the Sharks,” I say when they just stand there. “That’s why I’m here. Not here in Florida, but at your hotel room. I came to congratulate you. You smashed your first game.”

Smashed? Oh my gosh, Nova. Go find a rock to crawl under.

“I don’t understand.” His gaze bounces from me to Palmer, then back as he braces his arm against the doorframe. “Why are you in Miami though?”

While I expected questions, I didn’t anticipate an audience. Especially not an audience involving his ex-girlfriend—present girlfriend?—who hasn’t taken her eyes off me. I shouldn’t be here. I don’t know how much longer I can hide my fractured heart under my sleeve.

“I got a job with my cousin Leo’s sports agency.” My false enthusiasm isn’t bringing levity to the conversation. In fact, it’s doing the opposite. The tension only thickens. “You know, maybe surprising you wasn’t the best idea. I should’ve called, or better yet, just texted. This is your free night, and I came barging in. You two were probably having a date night or something.”

Confirm? Deny? Anything, please?

Devin’s stare whirls with questions. Questions I’m unsure I could answer with honesty in the present company.

And then my attention lands on the black stenciling of his arm gripping the doorframe. Even without a close-up examination, my doodle is confirmed. That’s me, my drawing. On his forearm. The one I drew at dinner in Montana, before Anders and Claire arrived. He kept that napkin?

Does Palmer realize he has me tattooed on his body? It’s not like there’s an eerie resemblance. That was the point of the drawing. Abstract, a scribbled sketch on a napkin—while we were in the middle of yet another fight—I thought had been thrown out.

He catches my focus and uses that hand to run through his hair, then drops his arm to his side. As if finally coming into himself, he lifts the corner of his mouth. “This is crazy. Which agency?”

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