“Phoebe Dawn?”
Another headshake.
He thinks, and looks at me as though my name is scrawled across my body, the way poetry is tattooed across his. “Holy shit. Is it Cordelia?”
I smile.
“Phoebe Cordelia. That’s fucking gorgeous. And it fits. Cordelia. InKing Lear, she’s the only good one. She’s the personification of beauty, dignity, and kindness. Yeah, it fits.”
I’m melting into a puddle at his words. My head is telling me this isn’t a date, but Ty’s words and lips indicate otherwise.
So, of course, I ruin the moment and blurt, “So what’s your name?”
“I’ll give you a hint,” he says, adjusting to the mood change like a pro. “I’m named after a baseball player. Well, after my grandpa, who was named after a baseball player.”
“Your name is A-Rod? But they call you Ty? That’s weird.”
“Ha ha. Try again.”
“I can't. He's the only baseball player I know, and that’s only because he dated J-Lo.”
He clutches his chest. “That’s sacrilegious. I’m taking you to an O’s game. Or maybe we’ll see the Nats. They don’t suck nearly as much. What’s tomorrow looking like for you?”
I laugh. “That clearly falls outside the bounds of tutoring.”
“False. Outside Jane Austen, maybe. But it’s still tutoring. And there’s a lot I want to teach you.”
Hot. Damn. There’s no way Mel was right and this is a date. But if he keeps talking like that, this might just turn into one.
I can feel my breath getting heavy and I have no doubt my eyes are wide. Is he going to kiss me? I haven’t been kissed in... wow. Nearly two years.
“I, um--”
He smiles and tucks that same strand of hair behind my ear again. “Tyrus.”
“What?” I’m not tracking at all.
“That’s my name. Tyrus, after Tyrus Cobb, one of the greatest players to play the game, even if it was about a hundred years ago.
***
Ty
I almost kissed her. What the fuck am I doing? I should have listened to Booker when he said it was dumb to have Phoebe over without the guys as a buffer. But I can’t backtrack now. I need to chill out a little and put the focus where it needs to be: on her paper. We’re standing at the base of the staircase. We can head up to the second floor to hang out in my room, or sit out on the back patio.
Based on the way she reacted to the almost-kiss? Patio it is. If we go upstairs and she keeps looking at me like I’m dessert and she’s hungry, we’ll be naked in no time. And that can’t happen. “You feel like working outside? Or we could hang in the living room? The guys all went out tonight, so we have free rein.”
“Outside is perfect. I miss having a yard.” We step outside and Phoebe gravitates toward the couch with the chaise lounge. It’s my favorite, too.
“Make yourself comfy. I’ll get drinks. Do you want water? Soda? Beer? We might have wine?”
“Water’s good. But I need to grab my bag. It has my book and all my notes, for what they’re worth.”
“I’ll grab it. Be back in a minute.”
Soon enough, we’re chilling on the back patio with drinks and books. It’s kind of a perfect evening.
“I know everybody loves Austen, but at this moment, I don’t.” Phoebe, the girl who’s occupied more than her fair share of my dreams for the past few weeks, breaks my heart with her words.
