Page 62 of Imperfect Player

“Everly? Is that you?”

I hear Ethan’s voice from inside. A moment later he appears in the doorway, fully dressed. “You’re early.”

“Sorry about that. I, uh . . . I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“Interrupt? What are you—? Oh.”

“Yeah, oh.”

He shakes his head softly at me before wrapping strong arms around my waist and pulling me against him. The gesture is so unexpected that I half tumble into him because my feet had been so rooted to the floor.

“That’s Veronica,” he tells me, as if I give two shits what her name is. We’re friends, I get it. His hookups? None of my business. But Christ, does he have to shove them into my face?

“She’s Fox’s sister,” he continues. “She’s trying to start up a cleaning business so I told him I would hire her. Everyone on the team hired her.”

“I bet they did.”

Young, gorgeous, and scantily clad. What more could a successful baseball player ask for in a housekeeper?

Another shake of his head just before his lips brush against my neck unexpectedly.

“Are you jealous?”

“No.”

“Mmhmm.”

“I’m not. It’s none of my business who you . . . you know.”

He pulls back and looks me directly in the eyes. When I look into his, honestly, I see a shit storm. Emotion swirls around: pain, fear, happiness. It’s all in there, battling, rioting, each one trying to come out on top.

This man is so much more than he gives himself credit for. So much more than I ever did either. A player. Arrogant. An asshole. Those had been my assumptions about Ethan Ambrose prior to actually meeting him. Yet I’m not sure that if someone else would have met him that night that he wouldn’t have been those things to them.

Because there’s something here that I don’t quite understand, and based on the look in his eyes, neither does he. It’s here nonetheless though, and neither of us seem to want to let it go. An immediate connection. Comfort. Friendship. More?

What that more is, I don’t exactly know. How do we proceed from here? I haven’t a fucking clue.

The only thing I do know is that Ethan’s wrong. I don’t deserve better than him. I don’t want better than him, if that’s even possible. I just want him in my life, in whatever capacity that means.

So I suck it up, offer a playful smile.

“You. I only want to you know . . . you.”

I chalk the statement up to him teasing me about our kiss the other night. He’s giving me a hard time. Even though that’s what I tell myself, try to convince myself, I can’t help but feel a little giddy on the inside.

The dampness between my thighs that his words cause aren’t an issue. But the beat that my heart just skipped? That’s a problem. That’s something I need to reign in and hide away if I want to have this man in my life. Because let’s face it, if I’ve learned anything in dealing with men on a daily basis, it’s to take what they say at face value. While I may associate the emotion I feel toward him with the sex he just said he wanted to have with me, he doesn’t. He wants sex. End of story.

Even though I know that, my heart still relishes the possibility of his words.

He smiles at me, looking happier than I have seen him since . . . well, ever. There’s a subtle shake of his head as he steps back.

“Let me grab my keys and we’re out of here.”

“Where exactly are we going?”

“The batting cages.”

“Huh?”

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