He snorted. “Superstar athletes are exactly the ones who know there are thousands of things we can’t control. We just have to prepare as best we can and not worry about the rest.”
“Patience,” I said, finally getting what he was talking about.
“Yeah,” he agreed. But the way he said it, with his gaze so intense on my face, made my breath catch. He was talking about me, about waiting for me. I didn’t know whether to be amazed or angry.
And right in the middle of this very intense moment, my stomach chose to remind me that I hadn’t had anything but coffee that day. It growled, loud and long, effectively breaking the moment as I blushed an embarrassed bright red.
“Hungry?” he asked with a grin.
“Um, yeah.”
He bowed slightly and held out his hand like a superposh butler. “This way, madame.”
I chuckled as we headed for the press box. And while I was still thrumming from the last conversation, he started a new one.
“So did your parents fight you? When you told them you wanted to be a journalist?”
Talk about a crash landing. Just when I started to enjoy the thrill of being with him again, he had to ask that.
“Ouch,” he said as he looked at my face. “Was it really bad?”
“Um…” I began.
“You haven’t told them? They still think you’re going?”
I stared at my feet rather than face him. Or my parents. “Journalism isn’t paying right now. If I can’t work at the paper, maybe I should let my parents pay for law school.”
His eyebrows rose. “They’re willing to pay your tuition?”
I nodded, feeling sick to my stomach. How fortunate was I to have parents who would foot the bill? But only if I did what they wanted. “They want me to go into corporate law. That’s the fastest way to big money, but it includes hundred-hour workweeks and the lingering guilt that I’m making rich, white guys richer by stomping on the poor.”
“You were never afraid of hard work, so it must be the guilt.”
I narrowed my eyes. “You can’t possibly know that.”
“Three years ago, you called yourself a nerd. Hard work isn’t a problem for you.”
Maybe he could know that.
The smell of cheeseburgers hit my nostrils and my stomach growled again. We were in the press box, which had two long tables for reporters set up in tiers as they looked out over the baseball field. The view was excellent, even though the stadium lights were off. And though we had a full panoramic view, the setting sun made it feel intimate. Maybe even romantic.
“Down here,” he said as he moved through the box to the table pressed right against the window. On it sat a covered tray. He lifted the top with ata-dagesture, and I saw burgers, fries, one soda, and one water bottle. Perfect.
“That looks great.”
He opened the water bottle with a quick twist. I couldn’t help watching how his forearms flexed, how he had biceps that led to broad shoulders that were all part of the full yumminess of a pro athlete. He’d been good looking before, but in the past three years, he’d filled out with muscles to spare. This close it was hard not to notice that there wasn’t any fat on his ripped body. Then he tilted the bottle up to his lips and started drinking. Lord, even his neck was sexy as he swallowed. Tan, roped with muscles, and with an Adams apple that bobbed up and down in a purely masculine, suggestive way.
Holy shit, I was depraved. No Adam’s apple ever bobbed suggestively. I remembered three years ago when I’d looked at his throat while he was inside me. I remembered the way he’d clenched his jaw just before his release and how his Adam’s apple had bobbed. I remembered, and God, I wanted to see it again.
He finished drinking and then flushed. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “I got thirsty talking so much.”
I’d been the one talking the most. Seems to me that was how he got me the last time. I’d never had a man listen to me so closely before. Or since. Then he gestured to the seat and I stumbled into it. My feet were aching from the Louboutin shoes. They weren’t made for walking all over a stadium. The moment I settled into the chair, I kicked them off. The ability to stretch my toes was nearly as sensual as the memories swirling through my brain.
Meanwhile, he settled beside me, though his chair angled in my direction. And as he picked up his cheeseburger, he watched my face. “Are you going to do it?” he pressed. “Go corporate for the money?”
“Probably,” I answered, disliking the topic. “I hate being poor.”
“But there’s got to be other journalism jobs. Don’t give up on this dream.”
