Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 97667 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97667 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
I can only hold his gaze for a fraction of a minute, scared that he may notice that it makes me sad to think I won’t be seeing him and Sam ever again. I’ve lost so much already. People I love, my career, friends––or rather people I thought were friends until the scandal. And now I’m going to be losing two more. Two of the best people I’ve ever had the luck of meeting.
He’s staring intently, in a way that’s become familiar, as if he has something to say but doesn’t know how to broach the subject.
“You want some popcorn?”
Huh? Okay, maybe not so important. “Uhh, yeah, sure,” I answer distractedly, thrown off by the change in gears.
“Great, get me some too, and whatever else you guys want. And a light beer, bottle, or draft is fine.” He hands me a hundred dollar bill.
Chuckling, I stare at the bill in my hand. “You always this charming on dates?”
The expression he returns is oddly serious. He shrugs. “I haven’t been on a date in eleven years.”
Huh? The twists and turns of this conversation are making me stupid. I’m completely at a loss. And then it dawns on me. Briefly checking that Sam is not within earshot, I say quietly, “Really? I didn’t picture you for the midnight booty call type.”
“Booty call?”
“Fuckbuddy––whatever you guys call chicks you sleep with. Personally, I never cared for that term. I mean, who treats their buddy like that? I know I don’t.”
“What? What are you talking about?” Judging by the look on his face, we’re both confused now.
“Hold that thought. I’m going to get nourishment,” I say, standing, and turning to my left, add, “Sam––you coming?”
He tears his eyes away from the game long enough to nod and we both climb out of our seats and head to the refreshment stands. When Sam and I return, the Yankees are down two scores, bases loaded, and Chase Headley is up at bat.
Calvin leans in and murmurs in my ear, “Keep an eye out for the paps. Don’t hide and don’t forget to smile.” He’s so close I can see a ring of dark, steel gray on the edge of his irises. I stare at this discovery for an inappropriate amount of time. I know this because he frowns at me.
As anticipated, everyone in the general vicinity has been surreptitiously turning to stare at Cal since we sat down. Then they take a long, measured look at me. It’s one thing letting people assume we’re together, flaunting it someplace as public as a Yankees game, however, is a completely different beast. My paranoia reaches an all time high that someone will recognize me and start hurling insults. So far, I’ve managed to not it let it spiral into a panic attack. God knows how because two rows down from us a trophy brunette keeps turning around and staring like she can’t quite place how she knows me.
“Hey!” A grating female voice shouts. Definitely trophy wife. “I know you. You’re that bitch that’s married to that guy––” she snaps her fingers “Blake. The Ponzi scheme in Stamford, Connecticut.” The brunette is standing, her voice getting louder and louder while I’m progressively getting smaller and smaller, trying to disappear under my seat. I feel Calvin’s body go stiff next to me. My grouchy knight in black armor starts to rise out of his seat.
“Cameras are on us. She’s not worth it.” I’m hanging onto his arm, trying to hold him back. My hands instinctively go to cup his face, to keep his attention on me. His eyes, narrowed and cold, find me and soften. Then his gaze drops to my lips. Every part of me goes very still. I can smell his scent, soap and something else, something good. Small puffs of air hit my cheeks. Oh crap, that feels good. His gaze holds mine, the atmosphere between us crackling with tension.
Just then, by the grace of God, the ballpark erupts in cheers as Headley hits a line drive that produces two scores and ties the game up. The spell is broken and my hands drop. I watch trophy’s husband grab her arm and yank her down. He’s whisper shouting at her something to the effect of “blah blah blah, Calvin Shaw, blah blah you’re wrong.”
Uh huh, yeah, little does he know.
Three innings later and the Yankees are up by two and Boston has bases loaded.
“Where would you go?” I hear him say. My eyes are glued to the game in progress, which is why the question takes me by surprise.
“Pardon?” I say with a sideways glance. He’s looking straight at me, his focus ultra intense.
“You said you’ll be somewhere else…where?”
The game interrupts for commercial break, and on the jumbotron directly in front of us, the kiss cam comes on. I love the kiss cam. There––I said it. A couple of octogenarians flash on screen. She pecks him chastely on the lips and everyone joins in on the oohhh and ahhh moment. In the privacy of my mind, I’m making up stories for them. That they were teenage lovers separated by cruel parents. That they later found each other after the war in some over the top romantic, star-crossed lovers way. Which war? I have no idea, but I let my mind run away with me.