Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 68697 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 343(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 229(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68697 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 343(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 229(@300wpm)
I haven’t heard from him since we texted a few days ago. What if I fucked it all up?
The other team’s batter steps up to the plate, and I narrow my focus. Because what I will fuck up is our lead if I don’t shove all this angst out of my mind.
We send three batters down swinging, and the game ends with a win. My frustrations take over again as I walk off the field, and I punch my fist into my glove.
How the hell did I misread the situation so badly?
“What’s up, Gun?” Zane asks as he catches up with me on the way to the dugout. “Did you get the wrong box score for the game?”
I collect myself and make light of the question. “Just pissed about that checked swing curveball in the sixth. That was not a strike.”
“Yeah, I’m sure that bad call is eating at you . . . in a game we fucking won.” He claps my shoulder. “Admit it. You’re pining for a certain hottie.”
I jerk my gaze to him. “What?”
Zane’s laugh echoes through the corridor to the locker room. “Maddox follows you on Insta,” he explains.
“That so?” I waggle my brows, deflecting the real question. “Big fan of my shirtless selfies, is that it?”
Zane rolls his green eyes. “Yeah, he finds you entertaining. In the way cat videos are entertaining.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“Gotta keep you grounded. Anyway, he told me you and Rafe Rodman were getting a little racy in the comments of your rooster pic last week.”
“Oh, did he?” I keep my tone nonchalant but my face burns with a flush. Good thing I’m already hot and sweaty from the game.
But seriously? He’s not wrong. Rafe and I did get risqué in the comments. We got filthy in our DMs. And then I got all the way off in his texts.
“He did,” says Zane. “And was kind enough to link it. I do love a good pair of Rodmans.” He whistles in appreciation for hot underwear, then asks, “So, what’s the deal with you and Mister Badass Billionaire?”
Your guess is as good as mine, buddy.
I could ask Zane the rules of dirty texting. Is it like sex chess where I wait for Rafe to make the next move?
But then I’d have to admit how twisted up I am over all of this. So I shrug. “I was taking a pic for social, and I couldn’t resist messing with him while giving a shout-out to the brand. You know how it goes.”
Zane gives me an I don’t buy it look, but I don’t flinch. I spoke the truth. Only the shrug was a lie. “What do you think it was?” I challenge.
“No idea,” he says as we reach the locker room, then his eyes widen and his jaw drops. “Shit! I just realized something.”
“That you’re never gonna beat me in the Best-Looking Ballplayer stakes?” I deadpan.
“No.” He stops me with a hand to my chest. “I realized Rafe is the guy you were giving fuck me eyes at the dance club—”
“Hey there, Gunnar!” Owen, our PR guy, calls as he heads toward Zane and me. “There’s somebody here for you.”
“Someone wants an interview?” That’s logical, but it doesn’t explain Owen’s wry smile.
“No. It seems you have a VIP guest.” He holds up a folded piece of creamy parchment paper. “And he left a note.”
My skin tingles.
Holy shit.
No way.
I shouldn’t let on how hopeful and eager I am, but I don’t have the will to be cool. I take the note and unfold it, getting a jolt of pleasure when I see the monogrammed RR.
The man has his own fucking stationery. Of course he does.
You asked for a surprise. Did you think I’d let you down? Come to the owner’s suite in an hour, and you can unwrap it.
11
LEAVE THE DOOR UNLOCKED
Gunnar
Freshly showered and full of speculation, I head to the private suite that overlooks the ballpark. Is Rafe a guest of the owner? Will Marlow be there?
I hope not.
I have no clue what to expect, and that has me as hot and bothered as the thought of Rafe waiting in the suite. But I never know what a pitcher will throw at me either. I thrive on the unexpected.
Tingling with anticipation, I knock on the door. A moment later, the latch clicks, the door opens, and the sexiest man I’ve ever known stands in the entryway. The lights are low, and the suite is empty. In the moonlight spilling through the windows over the dark field, Rafe is all carved cheekbones, stubbled jawline, and bright brown eyes.
“This is some kind of surprise,” I say casually, covering my inexperience with bravado.
“You haven’t even seen your gift yet,” Rafe says, in that voice like whiskey and dirty dreams.
I step into the suite, trying to seem cool and not like I’m a cocktail of nerves and desire. “Will I like your present?”