A knock at my door interrupts my thoughts.
"Delivery for Elena Martinez."
A young guy in an army-green jacket stands there, holding a paper bag with 'Rosetta's' printed on the side.
My favorite Italian restaurant. The scent of garlic and fresh basil wafts toward me.
"I didn't order anything," I say, confused.
He shrugs and hands me the bag. "I don’t know. It’s got your name on it and it’s paid for, including tip."
"Thank you." I take the bag, setting it on my desk as he leaves.
Inside the bag: chicken parm with extra sauce on the side, just how I like it. A side of their amazing garlic knots. And tiramisu for dessert.
It has to be from Nate. Who else would buy me lunch and have it delivered?
I pick up my phone and snap a photo of the spread, sending it to him with a text: “Did you do this?”
He replies immediately: “Maybe ”
"OMG! You're the best! ”
He texts back: "Are you ready for what I'm going to do to you this weekend?"
My cheeks flush hot. Our long weekend in New York. No hockey. No baseball. No family or friends or responsibilities.
"Can't wait." I text back. "But now I'm distracted and hungry in more ways than one."
"Perfect. That’s just the way I want you."
I laugh out loud, alone in my office. My phone buzzes again.
"Eat your lunch. I know you probably skipped breakfast."
He's right. I did.
I take a bite of perfectly sauced chicken parm, savoring the flavor. As I eat, I watch rain begin to fall outside my window, fat drops racing each other down the glass.
It hits me then, simple and overwhelming. I love him.
I’m in love with Nate Barnes.
I've never said those words to any man before. Never felt them this completely. Never been so certain and so vulnerable at the same time.
When did it happen? Was it when he started therapy, showing me he was serious about change? When he met with my dad man-to-man to ask for his blessing?
Or was it earlier? That first night at the hotel bar, when something inside me recognized something inside him?
I don't know. And it doesn't matter. What matters is that it's real. What matters is that for the first time in my life, I'm not overthinking this. I'm just feeling it.
My phone buzzes with a text from the team's pitching coach, asking if I can meet before practice. Back to reality…
I pack up the remaining food, saving the tiramisu for later. The rain falls harder now, drumming against my window, but inside I feel nothing but warmth. Three more days until New York. Three more days until I have Nate Barnes completely to myself.
Sunlight filters through a gap in the heavy hotel curtains, painting a stripe of gold across Nate's bare shoulder. I trace it with my fingertip, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath mine. He sleeps deeply, one arm flung above his head, the other curled possessively around my waist.
Outside our window, Manhattan disappears behind a curtain of swirling snow.
