Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 85838 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 429(@200wpm)___ 343(@250wpm)___ 286(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85838 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 429(@200wpm)___ 343(@250wpm)___ 286(@300wpm)
I stare salaciously at the shot, memorizing the shape of his face, the faint dusting of stubble across his jaw, the fullness of his lips. Most of all, the ownership in his gaze. Even though he’s shirtless, even though his abs are insane, even though his arms are mouth-watering, his eyes call me back every time. He looks like he wants to eat me alive. I don’t even know what to say except…mmm.
But before I can try to type that, another text from him lands.
Zane: It’s customary to send a selfie back :)
I laugh in the middle of all that incomparable heat. This man cracks me up and turns me on at the same damn time. He also makes me want to do his bidding.
Maddox: Now? My flight’s about to take off.
Zane: Pretty sure that’s prime selfie time.
I glance to the left. Chanel Woman, as advertised, sleeps. The flight attendant helps other passengers. Good. I don’t want anyone to see me taking a picture. This photo feels private. Like, if I take one now, everyone will somehow know it’s for Zane Archer. As if I’m wearing my desires like clothes emblazoned with the brand name Lust. That’s ridiculous, and yet that’s how I feel as I write back.
Maddox: You really want one?
I know he does. But I want him to tell me to do it one more time.
Zane: Yes, Maddox. Send me one.
It’s like he knew what I needed. He read between my lines. As surreptitiously as possible, I lift the phone, turn it to selfie mode and snap a shot, then check it. I’m not even smiling. But I can’t pretend I look businesslike in this image. I can tell what’s in my eyes. Bet he can too.
I hit send. Thirty seconds later, Zane replies.
Zane: Fuck…do you have any idea how good you look?
Maddox: Glad you approve.
Zane: I approve so hard. This will go to excellent use tonight. Also, thanks for your due diligence. I seriously appreciate it, as much as I appreciate this pic.
Then, I power down my phone, so I don’t slide even further into loopholes or think too much about what excellent use tonight really means.
9
BAD PITCHES
Zane
On the mound, I lean in for the pitch, peering at my brother behind the plate. He taps two fingers against the inside of his thigh. He stage-whispers from behind the plate on an empty ballfield in Sacramento, “Fastball down the middle.”
His daughter whirls around. “Daddy, you don’t need to tell me the pitch for me to hit it.”
“Daddy’s been busted,” I tease from the mound.
Gage frowns, guiltily. “I said that to give your uncle a hard time, Eliza. He’s only got one pitch.”
Eliza deals me the fiercest stare possible. “I bet you have another pitch, Uncle Zane. Try to trick me. Fastball, curve ball, anything,” she goads. At six years old, she’s already got a sharp mind and a competitive spirit to match.
I slide into an old-school, leg-kick, wind-up. Then I underhand the whiffle ball down the middle of the plate.
She smacks it hard, a solid grounder. My little niece runs the baseline as I field the ball then jog to cover first base, but I don’t even come close before she jumps on the bag. “Single! I hit a single off a major leaguer,” she says.
She offers a hand to high-five, and I smack back.
Then, we do it all over again, pitch after pitch after pitch. An hour later, when Eliza’s all worn out, she flops down on the grass by first base.
“I’m going to bed here,” she says, then pretends to sleep.
Gage offers her a hand. “Come on. Up and at ’em, little lady.”
“If I can have a piggyback from Uncle Zane,” she insists.
“I hope my agent is as good at negotiating as you are, kiddo,” I say, picturing Maddox in London, all badass and strong, protecting my best interests. Hell, expanding them. I’m lucky to have him in my corner.
I’m lucky, I’m lucky, I’m lucky.
I repeat that silently so I can stay the course. I haven’t sent him any more selfies since yesterday. Twenty-four hours and counting. I deserve a medal.
Eliza tilts her head to the side. “What’s an agent?”
“Someone who goes to bat for you,” I say as I squat and offer myself as her ride.
She scurries up my back. “I went to bat today. Can I be an agent?”
“Sure can,” I say, standing then walking out of the park.
“I bet I’d be as good as your agent,” she says.
“My guy is a rock star, so I’d say you would be.”
“Uncle Zane,” Eliza says, “do you think you can steal off that lefty reliever on the Phoenix Scorpions?”
“Whoa. You’re already studying pitchers in the major leagues?” I ask.
Gage flashes me a winning grin. “Course she is.”
“Daddy says baseball is educational when we watch it together. He teaches me everything, like how to frame a pitch.”