Page 25 of Elevator Pitch

“As you know, baseball players are highly superstitious.”

Why is he using that tone with me? One that sounds instructional and distant.

“And once we have something set in our head, a routine . . . a ritual, we don’t like to break the pattern.”

I nod, mouth opening with no ready response to what feels like schooling in baseball lore.

“And I’ve noticed a pattern.” He pauses, lifting his head and meeting my eyes. “With you.”

“With me?” I squeak out, like I’m about to be reprimanded. Like he knows I’ve been skipping out on writing to do anything but write.

“Yes. You.” He folds his arms over his chest again. “And I’d like to propose an experiment.”

“With you?” I ask, tipping my head forward and wide-eye staring at him, like opening my eyes wider will help me confirm I’m hearing him correctly.

“Yes. With me.”

“And what exactly is this experiment?”

“I’d like you to sleep with me.” He exhales. “Again.”

I stare blankly at him, certain I misheard him. His voice has been so off-putting and detached, and yet, I think he just asked me to sleep with him again.

“You want me.” I point to myself. “To sleep with you.” I point at him. “Again.”

“Yes.”

“Just sleep.”

“Yes.”

“In the same bed?”

“That’s how it happened the first time.”

“And this time?”

“In the same bed again.”

“Why?”

Ross sighs, lowers his head and squeezes the back of his neck, like he can’t believe what he is about to say. “Because you might be my lucky charm.” He slowly lifts his gaze. “My happy chance.”

“Your happy chance?” I sound like a freaking parrot with all the repetitiveness. Because I’m confused.

Ross waves toward me. “That happenstance thing.”

“That—” I cut myself off from echoing him again. This is ridiculous, but because I’m mid-forties and fully in my F-it era, I ask, “And how exactly would that work? Me. In your bed.”

He rubs his knuckles beneath his chin, the gesture bordering on anxious. The sound of his skin against that coarse hair causes a quiver in my belly. His mouth is tightly smug, like I’ve said yes when I’m still trying to process what he’s suggesting.

“I guess, you’d come to my place.”

My mouth gapes.

“Or I could come to yours,” he states, noting what I’m certain is a horrified expression on my face.

Finally, I smack my lips closed and blink once. “You know, typically, a man asks if he can buy me a drink or dinner before suggesting his place or mine.”