Total pages in book: 116
Estimated words: 114011 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 570(@200wpm)___ 456(@250wpm)___ 380(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114011 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 570(@200wpm)___ 456(@250wpm)___ 380(@300wpm)
His eyes narrow. Before it registers in my head, he reaches for my shoulder. Then, gently, he presses on the corner—effectively guiding me in a half circle.
“I can’t have a conversation with you when you’re literally freezing to death,” he says. “And I don’t have a coat to give you.”
He presses so gently, so lightly, on the back of my shoulder to guide me back to my car. I move one step at a time, with my attention fixed on the exact spot where his fingers press into my sweatshirt.
The contact is just enough to get the job done—get me back to my car. But it’s also just enough to frazzle the connection in my brain.
He reaches around me, brushing the side of my arm with his, and pulls open my car door.
“In you go,” he says.
“I was going to make a joke and say, ‘Thanks, Daddy,’” I say as I collapse into the driver’s seat. “But two things—one, I don’t think my dad ever did anything that thoughtful for me, and two . . .” My cheeks flush. “You know, the obvious.”
He turns his body, angling it toward the street and away from prying eyes.
“You know,” he says before biting his lip. “It’s going to be really hard to go coach a bunch of twelve-year-olds with a hard-on.”
My eyes flip to the crotch of his black workout pants. Sure enough, a bulge causes the fabric to press away from his body. His hand reaches down and adjusts it, and it’s only then that I realize that he’s watching me watch him.
The heat in my face goes up exponentially. I’m glad I can’t see myself because I probably look like a beet.
“If it helps, and it probably doesn’t,” I say, “I didn’t think that through before I said it.”
“It doesn’t. I’ll be replaying that in my head all night now. Thanks.”
He groans, situating himself while staring over the top of my car. Pointedly not at me.
I glance at the field, where two men are playing catch with the boys. My heart squeezes until I find Ethan in the mix of the chaos . . . smiling.
My shoulders fall in relief.
“You might get lucky,” I say, pulling my gaze back to Cole.
His eyes shoot to mine, and I realize where his brain just went.
“I mean that it looks like you have a couple of dads out there ready and willing to take the team over,” I say, grinning.
“You’re mean, all right.” He takes a step away from my car and glances at the field. “Those two have never thrown a ball in their lives. Look at their mechanics—or lack thereof, I should say.”
He makes a face of disgust that makes me giggle.
“Don’t do that either,” he says.
“What?”
“Giggle. I’m still extracting my thoughts from the ones you planted earlier.”
I sigh, amused by his antics, even though I don’t want to be. Even though I shouldn’t be. “Come on, Cole. Stop it.”
He looks down at me. His features read sober. “See? Nothing you can say will sound normal now. You ruined it.”
“Is that all I had to do?”
I lift a brow, my cheeks aching from all the smiling I’m doing. And the cold. Probably the cold.
“For what?” he asks.
“To get you to stop chasing me everywhere.”
His eyes twinkle, sparkling with mischief as he huffs an exhale.
“I’m glad that I found the key to keep you from asking me to dinner,” I say. Although I mean it—because I’m not going to dinner with him—I hold my breath.
“You think talking in innuendos is going to stop me from asking you to dinner?”
My insides quiver. I worry my voice will, too, so I don’t respond.
“I will ask you to dinner until you give me a good reason why I shouldn’t,” he says.
“I have.”
“No. You haven’t.” He glances over his shoulder and then back to me. “But right now, I have to go show this group why baseball is the greatest game in the world.”
“I thought that was Super Mario 3?”
He laughs. “Let’s continue this conversation after practice.”
Then, as if he hasn’t scrambled me enough for one day, he goes in for the kill. He winks. The bastard has the audacity to wink at me.
I take in his nice round ass as he jogs to the boys.
The plan was to take my blanket and join the women on the bleachers, but after a quick assessment, I decide against it. Instead, I close my car door and turn on the ignition to warm up.
On the outside. My insides are already ablaze.
Cole steps onto the field, and everyone—kids and adults alike—stops. They turn toward him like he’s some kind of baseball god. Maybe he is. I should look into that.
I smack my thighs with the palms of my hands and groan.
No. No, I shouldn’t look into that.
I rest my head on the seat front and sigh.