Page 87 of The Sweet Spot

“I don’t use a glove to get off for just anyone, you know.”

My brows furrow as she goes on. “I also don’t date. Haven’t for a really long time. In fact you’re the only person who I’ve deemed worth it.”

She raises her shoulder and the corner of her mouth lifts. “Which is my way of saying, I think I’m falling for you too, JB.”

I blink a few times, taking her in.

Did she? Did she just say that?

I don’t think. I kiss her, and everything else disappears.

It’s just me falling in love with her and her right along with me.

Her hand is still on my cheek as she pulls back and smiles.

I’m grinning too. I can’t help it. After everything this weekend, I only want more.

“Callahan.”

One of the clubhouse guys, Rafa, calls as he makes his way up the steps with a large bag over his shoulder.

“Equipment manager told me you wanted these before you headed out?”

“Hell yes.” For the first time tonight, I move out of Whit’s hold and quickly take the bag from him. There’s no way I want to lose these babies. “Thank you, man,” I say, clapping his shoulder and pulling him in for a bro hug.

“No problem. They’re locking up soon, though, so you’re gonna have to head out.”

“Sure.”

He heads back down toward the dugout as I offer my hand out to her.

“Can I take you home for one last night?”

She doesn’t take my hand. Instead she eyes the bag suspiciously. Then she looks up at me.

The second I unzip it, and she sees the white fabric poking through, she gasps.

“You can't be serious.”

“What?”

She stands, swatting my hand away and crossing her arms in front.

“JB. Are those — are those all your gloves?”

“And a few of the guys' spares. They donated to the cause.” I pat the bag. “All brand new, of course. But there’s enough for every game I have between now and November.”

“You cannot be serious.”

“There's no guarantee I see you for ninety-five days, Whit. Gotta make tonight count.” I hold the bag tighter.

“JB, no.” She's laughing, but she's arguing too, which is the most Whit thing in the world. “I did the one glove to get you out of your own slump. That's all it was. Your hit had nothing to do with me. It was you. All you. You stopped overthinking and you hit the ball. That's the whole thing.”

“Maybe,” I say.

“Not maybe. Definitely. I am a rational person telling you a rational truth.”

“Maybe,” I say again, hoisting the bag higher, “but I'm not the rational one in this relationship, and I'm not taking any chances.”