Page 48 of The Virgin Game Plan (Rules of Love 2)
A smile spreads across his handsome face. “I am. We actually FaceTime and Zoom every weekend, and we talk a lot after my games. They watch nearly every one.”
My heart warms. “Do they give you feedback?”
“Not anymore. They just talk about what they enjoyed. When I was younger, my dad liked to give me a little bit of feedback, like ‘Take your time and have patience,’ and my mom did that too. Maybe even more so than my dad.”
I arch a brow. “Your mom? You don’t hear that often.”
His eyes shine with what’s clearly a fond memory. “My mom is a baseball fanatic. My parents actually met at a baseball game,” he says, lighting up as he reveals more of himself.
“Stop. That’s too adorable. Now you must tell me the whole story,” I insist with a demanding grin.
“You’re the one press person who can get me to talk about anything,” he says, shaking his head in amusement. In that low, smoky tone, he adds, “I think that’s your special skill.”
I inch a little closer. “Because I’m not trying to screw you over.”
He arches a brow, his green eyes glinting with dirty deeds. “Reese, be careful what you wish for.”
I swat his shoulder, even though I love his innuendo. “You’re naughty.”
He slides closer, his mouth near my ear, his breath sending a wave of heat along my skin. “If memory serves, you like that side of me.”
I shiver, then draw a shuddery breath. Being near him is dangerous. “If memory serves, I like all sides of you. Now, give me the side where you tell me about your parents.”
“If you insist, but first . . .” he says, then snaps a shot of a ferry lumbering into the dock. Another moody shot for his Instagram, I suspect.
When he lowers the phone, his lips curve up. He’s not flirty or fiery, just earnest, as he says, “Can I take a picture of you?”
I’m taken aback. “To post?”
He shakes his head. “No. For me. Just for me.”
My chest flips, and I say yes. I lean against the railing. “Smile or not?”
“Whatever works for you.”
He lifts the phone, and I do smile. Because I’m looking at him. Because this day is better than I imagined. Because this man makes me feel like the only woman in the whole damn city.
Hell, make that the hemisphere, given what he told me earlier.
When he lowers the phone and tucks it in his pocket, he sets a hand on my back. “Like I said, that’s just for me.”
Tingles. Everywhere.
We head back inside, walking past a chocolate shop. My eyes swing briefly to the displays at Lulu’s.
“Oh, does somebody like chocolate?” he asks, like he’s taunting me with treats.
“Just a little bit,” I say, holding up my thumb and forefinger a sliver apart.
“What’s your favorite kind?”
I gesture to the shop. “They have these little chocolate drops. They’re these tiny dimes of chocolate that melt on your tongue.” I point to the bag of chocolate drops as I moan the slightest bit, imagining how good they are.
“Hold my cortado,” he says, handing me his drink. He grabs a bag, heads to the register, and hands me the chocolate upon his return.
“Should I just pop the chocolate in my mouth and think about you?” I ask, dropping the gift into my purse, then slinging my purse back up on my shoulder.
“Does the chocolate taste good?” he asks, gravelly again.
That rumble spreads down my chest, causing my pulse to surge.
“It does,” I say, trying not to sound desperately breathy.
But failing. Utterly failing.
“Then yes, please think about me.”
I blink, the temperature in me soaring well above one hundred degrees. I flap my hand in front of my face, needing to cool off. “Okay. Can we go back to your parents so I’m not thinking about how good the chocolate is going to taste and how much I’m melting from all the things you’re saying to me?”
“You’re melting?” he asks, clearly loving that I am.
I stare at him. Intensely. “Holden, you make me melt. And you know that.”
“I better change the topic, then. For both our sakes.”
“Yes, please.” I laugh, then whisper, “I think.”
He laughs too. “Just to be safe.” He clears his throat. “So, my parents met at a Seattle Storm Chasers game many, many years ago. She was in the stands, yelling at the umpire. He was yelling at the opposing team. The rest is history.”
“That is awesome. A perfect ‘how they met’ story for baseball parents. What about your brothers? Do they play baseball at all?”
He shakes his head. “Neither one of them is into the game.”
“Do your parents love that you play?”
“They do. But the thing is, they’re just as proud of my brothers for their abilities. For their interests in architecture and engineering. They didn’t treat me like I was a favorite or anything just because I played the sport they loved.”
