“On the plane to Bozeman,” I manage to say, as one of his hands lifts to cup my cheek, his body close enough now to brush against mine, like when we danced in that ridiculous bar in Montana. “You fell asleep and I heard you say it.”
“That makes sense,” he admits. “I’ve only ever called you that in my head.”
“You’ve thought about me?” I ask, as his head bends toward where he’d buried his face while we were on the plane.
“I have.”
“Since we kissed.”
“Since the first time I saw you.”
It breaks the mood, just ever so slightly.
I pull back to look up into his eyes. “That’s . . . you never . . .”
“We worked together,” he explains, lifting one shoulder.
“We work together now.”
“Not like this. Not like . . .” he trails off, one hand leaving me to run through his hair. “I was the captain of the team, a perennial All Star, future Hall of Fame. I was in the middle of a ten-year contract worth nearly three hundred million dollars. You worked in the analytics department. If things went bad, who do you think would have taken the fall?”
“So you didn’t . . .” I trail off, not sure how that question would have ended. He didn’t make a move? Seduce me? Make my place of work wildly uncomfortable? I was married at the time. So was he. An absolute recipe for disaster. Chivalry isn’t dead. Its name is Charlie Avery.
“I didn’t,” he confirms.
“And now?”
“Nowyououtrank me,” he says, and I open my mouth, my head full of comebacks, but he keeps going, “technically, andjust barely,andI’m still a future Hall of Famer. All things considered, I’d call us relatively equal.”
“Is that what you’d call us?”
“Equally desperate maybe.”
“Desperate?”
“I told you, I’ve wanted you since that first day. What was that? Five years ago? Six? That’s a long time to want someone.”
It is.
Did I want him back then? Oh, probably, if I’d allowed myself even a second to think about why we were constantly at each other’s throats, a series of daily throwdowns that could have just as easily have been resolved by finding the nearest flat surface and relieving that tension in the best possible way.
I’ve been quiet too long, thinking too deeply, because he steps away fully and I’m suddenly bereft at the loss of contact.
“Don’t,” I say, reaching out, my fingers wrapping gently around his wrist and watch, fascinated as goosebumps appear at my touch.
And just like that, the spark between us flares to life again. It’s a dangerous thing, to know that with one simple touch I can feel this way, electricity dancing in my veins and across my skin, a slow simmer that could easily turn into a fully-fledged inferno.
He stands still. So incredibly still, like a marble statue as I reach up to run my fingertips along the sharp cut of his jawline, his eyes wary and careful when I move even closer, our bodies nearly brushing.
“Do you want me?” I ask. I need to hear it again. He was right. I am desperate.
“You know I do,” he answers in a soft whisper, his breath ghosting over my lips before inhaling deeply, his chest rising and falling while his teeth dig into his bottom lip.
Holding himself back?
It’s hot as hell.
Pushing up on my toes, I let my hand slide up into his hair, feeling the silky strands slip through my fingers as I finally close the distance between us, just a brush of my lips against his. I pull away, just for a second, getting my bearings and now waiting for him. He has my permission; I’ve opened the door and now he needs to kick it open.
