Page 42 of Imperfect Player

“You have a nice place,” I tell her.

“Thanks. I’ve thought about upgrading, but I like it here. It’s home.”

The door opens and her outfit is much better. A loose t-shirt. A pair of leggings. Her covered up is definitely an improvement. For my hormones at least. My cock is cursing me. He was much preferring the other view.

Even dressed, I can’t help but to find her attractive—want her, even. I like the casual look on her. Okay, I like every look she has, but I think I actually like this one the most. Relaxed. Relaxed looks good on her. Her being this relaxed with me? Women never do that. They always try too hard. Hair done. Makeup on.

Everly has neither. No makeup. Hair in a messy bun and a cute shirt with the words coffee and sunshine splattered across the front of it.

“It suits you.”

“The apartment or the outfit?” she replies with a laugh.

“Both.”

I follow her into the living room where she offers me a seat on the couch with her. She curls up onto one side, and I settle in on the other.

“You were amazing this series. The whole team was, but your pitching was on point every game.”

“Is this a work thing or are you that big of a baseball fan?”

“Growing up, my dad used to take me to games all the time. He loved baseball. And since he spent most of his time working and supporting me and my mom, he didn’t have a lot of friends to hang out with.”

“Must have been some great bonding time for the two of you.”

“Yes and no.”

“Why do you say that?”

She waves her hand in the space between us. “You don’t want to hear about that. Let’s talk about—”

“Yes, I do. What is it?”

Everly looks down at her hands. I resist the urge to touch her, to lift her chin and make her look at me and see that I really do care. That I really do want to know.

Touching is off limits so instead I just tell her.

“I want to know, Everly. I want to know everything about you.”

“Why?”

“Isn’t that what friends do? Share things?”

“I’m not going to lie, I’m a little afraid of what you might share with me.”

“I said I want you to share. Not the other way around.” I wink at her. “So . . . talk.”

“I’m a twin,” she tells me.

My overactive imagination goes into overdrive picturing two of her and me in a bed. Reign it in, Ambrose. That’s not what this is.

“My brother, he, uh, he died a couple hours after we were born.”

“Oh, shit. I’m . . . I’m sorry. That must have been really hard on your family.”

“Despite what you hear about twins, we didn’t have some sort of bond in the womb. I don’t remember him. Probably wouldn’t have if my dad didn’t constantly remind me about it—about him, I mean. He never got over the fact that he lost his son.”

“That’s not your fault. He shouldn’t be guilting you because you survived and . . . ”

---