Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 91497 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 457(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91497 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 457(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
I recognize most everyone: girlfriends, wives, friends, family. We’ve all done this song and dance a hundred times before. There are a few new faces, though, like Michael, and they ooh and ahh the moment our feet touch that turf.
“Wow,” Michael whispers under his breath as he turns in a slow circle.
Harper realizes how awestruck he is, and it makes her laugh. “Cool, huh? Want to meet my dad?”
Before he can even comprehend her question, Harper has him by the hand and she’s tugging him over toward Luke. Since he didn’t pitch tonight, my brother has already wrapped up his interviews. When he sees his daughter and fiancée, he wastes no time getting to them. Chloe reaches him first, and she gets scooped up off the ground so he can lay a big kiss on her. He’s doing it because he loves her, plain and simple, but the photographers on the field eat it up. Their flashes go off like fireworks even after he sets her back down, laughing. She shakes her head, no doubt admonishing him playfully.
Then Harper reaches them and pushes Michael out in front of her.
Oh the awkwardness. I cringe.
I should be over there helping to smooth over the moment. To my credit, I do take a step in that direction, but that’s as far as I make it because then I spot Grant only a few yards away, talking to a reporter.
I freeze.
He’s unbelievable.
I’ve seen him in street clothes and he’s beyond sexy, but in his baseball jersey, he takes my breath away. He hijacks my thoughts and my good sense. It’s why I’m standing here with one foot positioned in front of the other, midstride, staring at him with my jaw scraping the dirt. He looks up and finds me like that, which is just great.
If he thinks my reaction is weird, he doesn’t let on. His eyes flit over me, down across my jersey and jean shorts and sneakers, then his attention shifts right back to the reporter without giving anything away. He’s talking to Sandra Neal, one of my favorite female sportscasters. She knows her stuff and is well-respected. She’s also not some cutesy twenty-one-year-old. She’s well into her forties—beautiful, yes, but damn good at her job. I admire her, usually. Right now, I’m wondering what the hell she could be saying that’s so funny. Grant gifts her a dimpled smile and the cameraman zooms in 10x, probably. I’m sure every audience member at home hits pause so they can swoon, men, women, children included.
It’s not fair to compare Michael and Grant, and yet my brain just can’t help itself. They’re both handsome men. That’s irrefutable, but they’re polar opposites. Michael’s brown hair is a lot lighter, almost blond next to Grant’s. His skin is fairer, his cheeks are a little rounder, and his eyes are softer, almost sweet. Michael is cute, but there’s nothing intimidating about him. He gives off golden retriever energy, which isn’t a bad thing, I remind myself. It’s what I’m looking for!
Meanwhile Grant is pure mischief. His dark sweaty hair peeks out from beneath his backward baseball hat. His piercing brown eyes—so light compared to his dark brows—make me feel slightly off-kilter when he chances another quick glance over at me.
I try, I really try to snap out of it and keep walking, but then he nods at Sandra, gives her one last smile, and curves around her with the intention of reaching me.
There’s no pretense, no other reason he’d be walking in this direction. How do I know? I check. I look behind me to make sure there’s not some buxom blonde in a bikini rushing toward him. No offense to buxom blondes, that is. But there’s no one, just security.
His stride is long and confident. It’s like the world is his for the taking, especially in that damn uniform. I find I’m a little starstruck, which is totally insane because I’ve been around professional baseball players for my entire adult life. I don’t care about them! Not at all!
So tell me why I can barely swallow, why my hands start to tingle and my heart beats so fast it’s like it’s tripping over itself trying to keep up…
He comes to stop just in front of me—too close—and I can tell he’s fighting back a smile. He studies me, tilts his head to the side, and then rubs his chin.
“I like your jersey.”
His eyes are on my chest. More specifically, on the Pinstripes logo stretched across it.
OH GOD.
“I didn’t buy it.” I rush to clarify that fact. I’m wearing his jersey! He thinks I bought it and wore it to his game on purpose! This is so mortifying I can barely work up the courage to continue standing here.
“Oh yeah?”
“M-Michael surprised me with it. Just like he surprised me with tickets to this game…”