Page 11 of Elevator Pitch

“Someone who can commiserate with your need for reading glasses and the ache in your joints.”

“Commiserate?” I chortle.

“Yeah, I mean, getting older sucks, but wouldn’t it be better to be with someone who can laugh with you about it versus someone who calls you old man. Unless you’re into that daddy stuff, which is a whole other shelf in the romance section.” She waves dismissively and releases a long exhale. The fight has gone out of her. “Besides, getting older is a privilege.”

The final gavel drops on her argument, and I ignore the sudden thud in my chest. She’s absolutely correct on her last point.

With a deep rumble in my throat, I say, “Romance certainly sounds like an interesting industry.”

“We even have sports romance for those of us who love both, but we won’t talk about baseball.” She hitches one shoulder, teasingly dismissing the topic.

My focus shifts to her other hand, reaching for it and rubbing down each of her fingers, marveling at the delicacy of them. Vee’s spirit and spunk don’t match her tender frame.

She hums.

Eyeing her hand, stroking over her fingers, the moment feels strangely intimate. Why am I touching her? More importantly, why am I afraid to let go? Most surprising is the question that escapes. “What kind of story would you write about us?”

“Oh, are we a story?” She ticks up a brow, her eyes flashing a playful blue.

My gaze flicks up to meet hers. “Aren’t we?” Could we be? The thought is ridiculous. Life is not fiction. It’s hard facts like losing spouses and important games, not equivalent in any manner, but life is full of deprivation. If Vee did write us a story, I wonder if she would make us a success. What do they call it for romance? A happily ever after.

Do I want that?

“We’d be a stalled elevator meet-cute turned only one bed.”

I glance around us, taking in the king-sized bed.

“But we aren’t talking about beds or sex . . . or baseball,” Vee confirms, a twitch in her smile.

Slowly, I return her smile. “Isn’t baseball somehow related to romance? I remember something about first base and second base.”

Her head tilts. “Is there something romantic about reaching second base?” Implying getting felt up might not be special.

My gaze drifts from her lips to her chest which is ample beneath her tight-fitting tee.

Cool Girls Read Hot Books. Cute.

Then, I shake my head, ridding myself of all thoughts of happily ever after and fictional tales. I’m here to chat, not check her out.

I don’t want a rebound.

I’m not looking for sex.

I just want company. Her company.

Something unfamiliar and rare aches inside me. She isn’t completely wrong about me wanting a woman who better understands me. Not the baseball fame or the spotlight fanfare, but me, Ross Davis, an aging man.

Patty would have been that person.

And I’m not old. Fuck that. I don’t have the cricks she’s talking about, but the day I bought reader glasses had been a difficult one. And she’s right. I didn’t like it when Chandler called me old man. I never let her call me daddy, although she asked if she could. I’m a father, for fuck’s sake. That’s just— I shudder.

“What about first base in a hotel room?” The question comes from left field.

Vee’s fingers stiffen within my grasp.

“For story-telling purposes,” I clarify as my eyes flick upward to meet hers.

“Strangers kissing in a hotel room? It has potential.” Teasingly contemplative, she pouts. Her head tilts like she’s honestly giving the idea thought. Her gaze is focused on me, processing, thinking. Then, she looks puzzled.