“So, tell me how things are in San Francisco,” I say as I angle toward him in the back seat.
“San Francisco said to tell you she misses you. She wants you to come back,” he says, pouting.
“I miss San Francisco too,” I say, and I miss my father. He passed away recently, leaving his majority stake in the team to me. Funny that Crosby mentions bringing the team home – but I’ve had so much to do running it that moving it isn’t top of the list. “But you can’t fit a football team in a U-Haul.”
He chuckles at whatever image that brought to mind. “Okay. I admit you’d have more than the average person to pack up and move.”
“And that’s not even counting my shoes.”
“Come on.” He nudges my knee with his. “You don’t have to crush my dreams without even pricing moving companies.”
I furrow my brow. “You can’t be serious. Logistics aside, the Hawks are based here. I can’t just up and move the franchise, and San Francisco to Vegas is a hell of a commute.”
He leans forward and rests his hand on my leg as if to make sure he has my attention. “I maintain that Nadia Harlowe can do whatever she sets her mind to.” When he sits back, his hand slides away. My hand drifts down to my thigh and smooths over the cool spot where his warmth had been.
“I admit though,” Crosby continues, stretching his arm out along the back of the seat, “that’s a little more complicated than transferring to a branch office. I’m just a selfish bastard who thinks it would be fun if you were there.”
He shoots me a crooked grin. This man deals them out like they’re playing cards—all of them aces. His smile is winning. Magnetic. Irresistible.
But then, that’s kind of how I would describe Crosby. Blue eyes the color of the sea, dark hair, so soft and wavy, and a smile that absolutely makes your heart flip—he could make you say yes to nearly anything.
When we were growing up, he was my brother Eric’s friend, but Eric wasn’t always around, and Crosby liked to always stay busy.
He’d ask me to join him in a game of baseball. I’d pitch, and he’d catch.
He’d convince me to go skateboarding. I’d show up with my helmet and knee pads, ready to fly downhill.
But then I’d ask, “Do you want to go to a concert?” and he gave his yeses just as easily.
We’ve always enjoyed each other’s company, in sync somehow. It’s actually surprising that nothing romantic has ever happened between us.
But he’s a guy who attracts women easily, and is often seeing someone.
And I’m a woman with a lot of irons in the fire, and am often busy with work.
And as Crosby pointed out, we don’t live in the same city.
So I always make the best of our time when our paths cross.
As friends.
Only as friends.
We arrive at the restaurant and grab a table, discussing the menu (enticing), whether we should actually get the most expensive thing (we don’t), and save the serious catching up until the server has taken our orders.
“Forget how San Francisco is,” I say when we’ve given over our requests and our menus. “Tell me what’s up with Crosby Cash.”
“Well, spring training starts in a few more weeks,” Crosby says, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “I have a good feeling about this year.”
“Then we should toast.” I raise my water glass. “To another fantastic year for the Hawks, and a marvelous one for the Cougars.”
He lifts his glass too, and we clink.
Over our lunch, we chat, laugh over shared memories of high school, compare notes on our favorite new music, and discuss whether we should buy him some new lucky socks, since he has a thing for socks. We taste each other’s entrées and share a dessert that he eats most of, and I can’t remember the last time I enjoyed a meal so much.
I’ve definitely never been on a date where I’ve been this at ease, or where the conversation flowed so freely. Maybe it’s because of our shared experience, or maybe it’s because this isn’t a date and there aren’t any expectations, that I can relax.
We’ve got a good thing going on. When we’ve finished up and made our way to the front to meet my driver, Crosby leans in, brushes his lips to my cheek, and says, “I should go join the guys.”
“You should,” I say. We’re already on the Strip, not far from where he’s staying at The Extravagant.
He seems to linger a little bit when he hugs me, holding me close, murmuring how good it is to see me, then running his hand lightly over my hair.
My stomach flips.
That was not a friends-only thing. But was it deliberate?
Does he know how good that felt? Did he mean for it to?
