Page 96 of Last Night Was Fun

She slipped from the bed and padded over to the sliding closet doors. Behind them, she found a menagerie of pastel polos and smiled to herself.Instead of borrowing one of his work shirts, she opted for the old SDSU Baseball tee he’d worn to bed in Mexico. It fell to her thighs. She searched the floor for her bra and underwear, and when she didn’t find them, decided with a shrug that she didn’t need them. She stole into the bathroom and found herself looking properly rosy-cheeked and mussed in the mirror.

When she finished, Emmy wound her way through the hall and found Gabe in his kitchen having pulled on sweatpants and a tight T-shirt. She didn’t think the man owned a loose T-shirt, save maybe the one she was wearing, and that was fine by her.

His apartment had a floor plan similar to hers with an open concept kitchen that spilled into a dining area and living room. Soft blankets buried his couch, and another stack of novels and a few statisticsbooks were piled on his coffee table. The pale blue-and-gray decor was all rather soothing. The giant TV was turned on to the baseball game midway through the third inning.

Gabe stood with his back to her at the counter chopping something on a cutting board. A bottle of wine waited on the island behind him along with two glasses and a small tray of vegetables. When he turned to see her barefoot in his shirt, his face pulled into a warm smile. He stared at her bare legs for a hot beat. Then his eyes traveled over her chest visibly pointed through the threadbare T-shirt. He reached out to wrap an arm around her and pull her close, and in doing so, skimmed her thigh to her hip and felt that she wasn’t wearing any underwear.

He froze and noticeably stopped breathing. “Are you trying to kill me, Emmy Jameson?”

With a grin, she plucked a carrot off the island and snapped it between her teeth. “Yes. This has been my long game all along to finally best you.”

“Hmm.” He buried his lips in her messy hair. “You win.”

She pushed away from him and hopped up on the island. The icy granite through the shirt made her shiver. “What’s for dinner?”

“I hope you like Bolognese. I haven’t gone shopping since we got back, and it’s the only thing I have all the ingredients for.”

She uncorked the wine to fill two glasses. “Sounds great. Would you like a glass to toast to Hollander choking at the plate?” She nodded at the TV where the center fielder, their favorite topic of debate, was walking into the batter’s box.

“Yes, but he’s not going to choke.”

“He’s totally going to choke. With a runner on third, his batting average is one twenty-five, Gabe.”

“Exactly. Right where we want him.”

“Sure, if you’re the other team.” She handed him one of the glasses she’d filled. He clinked it against hers and sipped.

“No, if you’re this team. He has a predictable pattern: troughs and peaks like anyone. He evens out.”

“You did not just mansplain regression to the mean to me.”

He smirked at the playful scowl on her face. “All I’m saying is he’ll pull out of it. His highest highs always come after the lowest lows.”

“Yeah, but we didn’t pay twenty million dollars over three years for Hollander’s brand of lows.” She pointed at the TV right as he swung and missed on a one-one count. She threw up her arms. “Why would you swing at that? It was ten miles outside!”

She caught the grimace on Gabe’s face like he agreed but didn’t want to admit it as he turned back to the stove. Emmy smiled to herself and snapped another carrot between her teeth. As he continued to cook, she watched the muscles in his back move under his shirt. He reached for the cutting board and dumped its contents into the pan. Then he opened a cabinet and stretched for a measuring cup on a high shelf.

She could easily get used to watching him make dinner.

“So, if we’re going to do this, what’s it going to look like?” she asked.

Gabe turned and gestured at the room like it was obvious. “Like this.”

“What, you cooking me dinner while I sit on the counter in your old T-shirt and tell you how you’re wrong about yourfeelingsabout the game?” She pointed to the TV with her hand holding her wineglass.

“Yes, or you could be naked if you prefer. And I’m not wrong.”

“You’resowrong,” she said just to egg him on.

“Emmy, I’m not. When he’s under two hundred at the plate, he steps it up. He picks his pitches better. His OBP is directly correlated. Because of his slump, the probability of him getting on base tonight is higher. Did you run the model I wrote for you?” Gabe let out a little huff. He walked back over to the island where she sat and picked up his wine.

She coyly smiled at him. “You’re so hot when you talk about statistics. When you get passionate, this squiggly little vein pops out in your temple.” She brushed her thumb over it and bit her lip.

He held her gaze for a beat, cooling off, and then smiled back. “Careful, that’s my thinking vein.” He leaned his head away. “So, did you? Run the model?”

“I haven’t had the chance yet, no.”

“Well, you should.”