Total pages in book: 26
Estimated words: 24270 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 121(@200wpm)___ 97(@250wpm)___ 81(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 24270 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 121(@200wpm)___ 97(@250wpm)___ 81(@300wpm)
“Once,” he corrects. “The night of the game. And I never actually said dirty.”
“Uh huh.”
“I didn’t.”
“You sure didn’t correct the media when they implied it, though.”
Josh’s face turns serious and he sighs. “You’re right, I didn’t. I was running pretty hot the night we lost. I probably said some things I shouldn’t have.”
There’s a napkin on the table, wicking up condensation from his drink. He runs his finger over the edge of it. He exhales, like he’s gearing up for something, then meets my eyes. “I was reeling from the loss. And the possibility that maybe I missed my chance with you,” Josh says it quietly, biting his lip.
His eyelashes are a dark shadow on his cheek. And his admission makes me think that yes this is a real date. And I have that much of an answer to at least that one question.
“You didn’t, Josh,” I say. “Miss it, I mean.”
Josh smiles, grabs a menu, and hands it to me. “Pick a drink. I’ll go order.”
“Oh, you’re that kind of boyfriend,” I tease.
His smile falters.
“It was a joke.” Of course it was. Because that’s my luck. Most of the guys I think of as potential boyfriends only end up as the suffix. Friends. I reach out, scanning the menu. “I’ll take a martini. A dirty one.”
Josh heads to the bar, and I watch him, enjoying the view. He returns a few minutes later with two drinks, a beer and a cocktail glass he slides toward me.
“The bartender assures me this is quote-unquote extra dirty,” he says.
“Perfect for me, then.”
“Yes, it has your name all over it, Chris,” Josh says as he rolls his eyes. He lifts his beer but stills when I wave my hand to stop him.
“No toast?” I ask.
“What are we drinking to?”
I tap my championship ring against the glass. “The World Series?”
Josh shakes his head a little despairingly. “Anything but that.”
“Second dates?” I offer, hopeful he’ll see this the same way.
His mouth has an amused tug to it and that looks good on him. “How about third ones?”
That’s even better. “Ambitious.” We touch glasses, and I drink. “This is really excessively dirty.”
“I can get you another one.” He’s halfway standing before I can object. So he really is that kind of boyfriend. Just not mine. Yet.
“It’s fine. It’s good.” I drink more of it to prove my point, and he resettles. It’s a curved booth, and he slides in closer so that we’re thigh to thigh. “Besides,” I add, “I think this is technically our third date.”
“I don’t think half-making out in a parking lot counts as a date.”
“I meant the golf tournament. Even though you were all . . .” I make a look of mock intensity, frowning slightly and pursing my lips.
“Well, it was that or try not to stare at your ass in those golf pants. Who makes golf pants look that hot?”
“You didn’t do a great job of hiding that because I caught you looking about seven times. Then three during lunch, but who’s counting?”
“You obviously.”
“Well, I’m into baseball analytics.”
He cracks up. “I’ll say.”
“But also, you were so intense about the tournament and I think everyone else was kinda buzzed,” I say.
He mumbles something into his glass about the sport.
“Didn’t catch that,” I say.
“I’m not very good at golf and I, uh, got lessons.”
“For real?”
“It was for a children’s charity. I didn’t want to embarrass myself or not raise money or whatever.”
And that’s officially adorable. I kiss him, on the cheek, right at the edge of his beard. It scrapes pleasantly against my lips. He turns into the kiss until our lips brush. And he doesn’t kiss with the same desperation he did back at the studio. This is a date kiss. A relationship kind of kiss and that’s sort of terrifying and wonderful at the same time. A whole different kind of intensity, especially when I pull back. But he’ll have none of that. He winds a hand around the back of my neck. Our foreheads touch.
And Josh doesn’t stop. He returns to my lips with slow, decadent kisses. He’s not in a rush at all. He just coasts his lips across mine, explores my mouth, and takes all the time in the world. His hand lingers on my thigh. His other hand plays with the ends of my hair, and holy hell. Josh Spencer can kiss, and my head is a haze. A dreamy, delicious fog of his scent and his want, and the utter strangeness of my life right now. The last time I saw him he walked away, and this time he’s kissing me like he never wants to stop.
But I can’t let my mind go there. To what this might be. This is just an unexpected early afternoon drink. We’re both leaving for spring training in mere hours. As much as this might feel like a something more kiss, things between two rivals who exchanged heated words don’t change just like that. With a blow job, and a martini, and a stolen midday moment.