“I’m sure,” I answer simply, letting the innuendo slide past us, and her shoulders drop in clear relief. “Let’s go.”
Chapter 9
FRANCESCA
Arizona was not on the agenda when I left New York to clean up the mess with Ethan Quicke. But I’m here now and, in that brief moment between stepping out of the recirculated cool air of the plane and the air conditioning pumping through the airport, the dry heat leaking through from the tarmac reminds me that I did not pack for the desert.
“Wait,” I say, glancing into one of the few shops at the tiny airport our chartered flight landed in, though I don’t really feel like donning anything that proclaimsARIZONAacross my boobs. I mentally run through what I have in my bag, but it’s basically pajamas, the one suit I wore on the way in and the clothes I wore last night: jeans and long sleeves. There’s a pair of cotton shorts in there that could pass, but nothing on top that wouldn’t be wildly inappropriate.
It’s going to be at least ninety degrees out there today and I’ll be spending it out in the blazing sun.
“What is it?” Charlie asks.
“Do you have a shirt I can borrow?”
“Uh,” he hesitates, looking me up and down quickly, but the speed doesn’t stop a soft jolt going through me. “I don’t think anything I own will fit you.”
“A t-shirt? I can tie it up.” He pauses and for a second his eyesgo a little unfocused. “You know what, forget it. We can just stop at a store on the way.”
“No,” he assures me. “I have something. Hang on.”
He squats down and I’m hit with an extremely odd sense of deja vu. He was a catcher and he probably spent more time squatting than some human beings spend standing. He pulls a folded bit of navy-blue cotton from his bag and hands it to me. As he stands, he lets out a muffled groan and the click in his knee is so loud I think it echoes up into the rafters of the terminal.
“I wore it, but it wasn’t like we ran a marathon. It should be pretty clean.”
“Thanks,” I say, taking it and disappearing into the bathroom.
One of the major demands of my job is the sheer amount of travel, sometimes to places no one has ever heard of before crisscrossing the country to see in person if my analyses prove true, to see if the players can live up or down to what the algorithm says. I’ve changed in more than one airport bathroom in my life, though admittedly this bathroom that serves passengers that just flew a chartered flight is one of the nicer ones I’ve ever been in. Even still, it’s a public restroom. Not exactly the height of luxury or cleanliness. But as I pull his shirt over my head, I do what normally would feel absolutely insane. I inhale. It’s the same shirt he wore last night, a faded Brooklyn Eagles logo printed on soft cotton that still smells vaguely like laundry detergent, but also clearly tinged with the lingering scent of him.
I lift my hair out of the collar, letting it fall down my back, and then tie the bottom of the shirt into a tight knot just above the small of my back and fold the sleeves up enough so they’re not hanging down to my elbows. Paired with the sneakers I brought along just in case I got up the motivation to go for a run while I was away and it’s not a bad look for a minor league ballpark.
Okay, good to go.
“Huh,” Charlie grunts, when I rejoin him.
“What?”
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you dressed so casual for work.”
“I was pretty casual last night.”
I flinch. Again with the double entendre. It’s like I’m incapable of speaking around him without making it sound like I want to bang him.
Which, if I’m being honest, isn’t that far from the truth.
At least it wasn’t last night, just after telling him that I couldn’t go there with him, not again, closing the door behind me and immediately diving under the covers to try and get some relief. I was embarrassingly wet when I shed my jeans and panties, it barely took anything at all, just a few flicks of my fingers, even though they felt too soft and too small. So, I imagined his hands, warm, the way they were holding me while we danced ,and large, the way his palm and fingers were able to completely wrap around me, thumb pressing gently into the space just below my hip bone. It wasn’t hard to imagine the same pressure between my legs, the callouses made permanent by the bat and ball over a lifetime sending me over the edge. It was a quiet, shuddering release and I’m not exactly proud of it, but I didn’t know what else to do.
Just like he has before, though, he lets it go, though I can see amusement dancing merrily in his eyes.
“C’mon,” I say, pushing past the awkwardness coursing through me, “we’re going straight to the field. The game is at one.”
“Aye, aye, captain,” he says, tapping two fingers to his forehead in a salute before falling into step with me. “So, one more time, we’re here to look at . . .”
I pick up where he trails off. “Cole Davis, catcher. ArchieEsposito, lefty pitcher – he’s getting the start today – and Xander Greene, centerfield.”
“And you really think you can convince ownership that they should go with them to start the season?”
“I wasn’t sure,” I admit, but then make sure I stare straight ahead, determined not to look at him when I say, “but with your backing and Stew’s, I know I can. It won’t take long before they prove themselves out on the field.”
