“Okay. Then what was the snort for? Is something on your mind?”
I don’t want to unload on him, certainly not about my dating woes. He doesn’t need to hear that finding a date is harder than finding a quarterback, and there’s literally nothing harder than that in the NFL.
“Oh, it’s just been a long day,” I fudge. “Contract negotiations.”
He makes a purring sound. “Oh, you’re so sexy when you talk about contract negotiations.”
I laugh. “You want me to whisper sweet nothings about mediation?” His purr gets louder. “Free agency?”
“Oh, baby.”
This time I snort with laughter, and he breaks too.
“Real talk though,” he says. “Tell me what you’re working on. I’m in baseball, so nothing you say will do me any good.”
I wiggle more comfortably into the couch cushions and update him on the team, then I make him tell me about his upcoming home stand, the games he’s playing, the pitches he’s connecting with this season. An hour goes by in a blink, and before I know it, I’m yawning at the end of a second one.
“I can’t believe I’m keeping you up this late,” I tell him without an apology.
“You are,” he says with gravel in his voice. “You’re a night owl, and I’m not.”
“I bet you’d be a night owl if you gave it a chance. You can practice at the awards.”
“Well, they’re in LA, so same time zone. Don’t worry. I won’t fall asleep next to you in the theater.”
I guess we’re sitting together. No complaints here.
“I can nudge you if you start to snore.”
“Counting on it,” he says.
We end the call, and I trip along to the closet to finally pick a dress, as excited about the event in LA as if it were a date.
And, well, it feels a little bit like one.
But it’s not.
The night of the awards, I absolutely cannot resist watching Crosby Cash from across the ballroom.
I’m trying not to be too blatant about it as Matthew and I lean against the bar, surveying the guests in their lavish clothes and glittering jewelry. I love that some of the male players wear as much sparkle as any woman here. Blingy bow ties, fantastic kerchiefs, and occasionally a suit the color of sapphire or amethyst.
“Shame that our job sucks so much,” I say.
“It’s the worst,” my right-hand man agrees, lifting his glass of champagne.
“Watching sports. Going to awards. Vying for huge trophies,” I sigh.
“Having fun is a curse.”
“I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy.”
“Oh, but here’s something!” Matthew straightens from the bar like something caught his eye, then leans in to whisper, “Somebody is heading toward you.”
Someone is.
Crosby.
Looking fantastic with that launch-a-thousand-ships smile, those carved cheekbones, that sturdy jawline with just the right amount of stubble. And his body, built by baseball, broad shoulders, strong pecs, and doubtlessly fantastic abs under his formal jacket.
“Some men were just made to wear tuxes,” I say.
Matthew rolls his eyes. “I have no opinion on the matter. On an unrelated note, I’m going away to go talk to Phoebe.”
“Have fun.”
“I will,” he deadpans. “And have fun with your third baseman.”
Finally, I drag my gaze from Crosby and look at Matthew—and his smirk. “It’s not like that,” I protest.
“Of course not.” He waits a beat. “That was sarcasm, if you were wondering.”
He’s off before I can reply, and then Crosby saunters up to me. He brings me in for a huge hug, holding me tighter, embracing me closer than I expect.
“Oh.” I’m breathless when he eases up. “That was quite a hug.”
“I can’t resist. You’re easy to hug, Wild Girl,” Crosby says, using his nickname for me from when we were kids.
“I didn’t say I minded.” My eyes float closed, and ever so briefly, I let myself inhale his clean, showered scent, since he’s still close.
It should be illegal for a man to smell so good.
Crosby nods at my champagne glass. “I see you already have your drink.”
“This?” I tip my head back and drain the little bit that’s left. “Just for starters.”
He chuckles and gestures to the bartender for two more glasses, handing one to me. When he leans against the bar, taking Matthew’s spot, he looks cool and casual, his dark hair neat and combed instead of sticking up wildly like when he takes his baseball cap off. Both looks are good on him. Terrific in a tux and mouthwatering in his baseball uniform.
When he turns his blue eyes my way, they’re twinkling with humor. “So how is your precious trophy doing? Are you taking good care of it? Giving it treats and petting it every day?”
I roll my eyes. “It shows fingerprints like crazy. After a few weeks, I took pity on the cleaners who have to polish it. Now I just rub it for luck before I head to The Extravagant to hit the tables.”
