Page 14 of Elevator Pitch

“Happy chance?” I repeat.

“Happenstance. A coincidence. You and me in the elevator. And now you and me in my bed.”

Definitely a happy chance. “I like my phrase better.”

She quietly chuckles. “I think it’s kind of the same thing.”

As the sweet sound of her quiet laughter flutters through the room, I drift off to sleep imagining this is my life. I lose a game and come home to a woman who empathizes and supports my mood, because she understands me. She appreciates me, not just the fame of a game, and what it could mean for her status. Her image. Her brand. Her portfolio.

I snuggle selfishly into Vee, holding her tighter to me.

Silently, I thank an elevator for getting stuck and giving me an awkward ten minutes that have turned into a night of much-needed distraction.

No fooling around. No complicated sex.

Just some pillow talk.

It’s refreshing. Like Vee.

A happy chance.

Chapter 4

[Vee]

At some point during the night, I pressed off Ross’s chest and rolled to my side, giving my back to him. Like iron fragments chasing a magnet, Ross rolled with me, lining his body up tight against mine. His heavy arm draped over my waist. I fell into a restless doze.

The gentle hum of him snoring could have been the reason for feeling unsettled.

Or the fact I’m literally sleeping with Ross Davis, my imaginary baseball boyfriend.

My overactive thoughts wander through a variety of scenarios, if only I were a little more reckless and a lot more seductive. Like how I would have kissed my crush at some point. That strong hand of his would have cupped my neck, wanting more from me. Our tongues would have met, and I’d have had a connection like none other, taking us down the first base line to making out.

How long has it been since I’ve been kissed?

My wayward thoughts round toward second base. I didn’t miss how his eyes raked over my T-shirt. His hands are the size of a baseball mitt and, in my fantasy, he’d cover my breast, squeezing, kneading, before plucking at the tight nub of my nipple.

With that mental image, I squirm a little and feel the glory of something solid and firm pressing against my backside. Baseball euphemisms abound. He has quite the bat in his pants, and I’d like him to take a swing. I dig my teeth into my lower lip to suppress a giggle. I’m so exhausted I’m not thinking straight, and I’m in this weird dream state with Ross Davis behind me and the firmness of his morning wood against my ass.

If I’d been braver last night, I would have run my hand lower than the Anchors logo on the tee covering his firm chest. Down, down, down to the wedge that wasn’t hidden by loose fitting sweatpants. Slipping below his beltline, my hand would have stolen to third base. He would have placed his hand on my backside and tugged me over his firm body, coaxing me to straddle that big bat of his.

After that, we would have headed for a home run. Or at least I would have scored because there’s no doubt what he’s packing in those sweatpants would have brought me to an instant fireworks-over-the-stadium celebration.

I nearly burst out laughing at my own ridiculousness.

But when his hand flattens and he coasts it over my belly, I stiffen. Torn between the desire for his touch, and knowing I’d want so much more than a roll in these sheets with Ross Davis, I stay still. He nuzzles his nose into my nape while tightening his arm around my midsection and tugging me closer to him. His hips gently roll forward and then he stalls.

I sense his confusion. That awareness he’s pressed up against a woman. A woman he doesn’t know or recognize. I can almost hear his mind sprinting, wondering what he’s doing in this strange ballpark, AKA my hotel room.

The arm hooked over my waist tenses. His breath catches. His solid length holds firmly against my lower cheeks.

“Mornin’,” he grumbles, groggy and low.

“Good morning,” I choke.

He abruptly rolls away and falls to his back. As I twist to face him, he swipes both hands down his face before blinking up at the dim ceiling.

“I’m still here,” he whispers.