Page 42 of Elevator Pitch

He tips up his chin, a smirk on his lips. “Next time you spank me, you might need to brace for a spanking in return.”

Sweet baby Jesus. The skin on my cheeks goes from mild to flaming hot.

He brushes his knuckles against my neck, pushing my hair over my shoulder. Then he leans closer to me. His forehead almost connects with mine. I can smell the fresh mint of toothpaste on his breath.

I shiver beneath his touch and dig my teeth into my lower lip. Will he kiss me?

“It’s gonna be a winning day.” His voice drops. The sandpaper on wood rasp sound makes me shiver.

Slowly, I smile, while my heart hammers in my chest. At least he has the right attitude.

“I’ll call you later.” The statement is a canned response. He didn’t call me yesterday. He hardly responded to my text.

And I need to save myself from getting too involved in his superstition act and sexual innuendos.

I clear my throat. “Actually, I have plans later.”

He presses off the wall and stands to his full height, arms slowly folding over his broad chest and crossing as he stares at me.

“Plans, huh?”

I don’t elaborate. It’d be easy to tell him the truth, but for some reason, I don’t. Maybe because the sex thing is still bothering me. Maybe it’s more that he could have sex with someone else before coming to spend the night in my bed. And suddenly, I’m thinking of Cameron and how he did such a thing. He’d fucked another woman before he slept with me in our bed.

Ross’s brows pinch, watching my expression, which I try to school at the sudden flash from my past. I remind myself Ross isn’t Cam. He doesn’t owe me his fidelity, just like I don’t owe him.

Taking a risk, I grip his warm forearm and give him a squeeze. “Knock it out of the park today, Coach.”

Ross doesn’t look as carefree as he did a few seconds ago, teasing me about toes and two men. Or reciprocal spankings. Instead, he tips up his chin again and mutters, “Have a good one.”

Then he reaches for the door and lets himself out.

And I exhale a breath I hadn’t known I was holding.

+ + +

That afternoon, the Anchors won. Operation Superstition was a two-game success.

However, we skipped last night’s sleeping ritual due to my plans.

Today, the Anchors return to their stadium with a home game against St. Louis, and I have a ticket for the afternoon matchup. After another morning of minimal word count, I am excited to return to the ballpark, in hopes of some inspiration.

The day is cloudy, with the threat of rain, which the desert climate desperately needs. I’ve been here long enough to learn rain showers can be fleeting. Still, I brought a pullover sweatshirt with me just in case, along with my freshly charged tablet, prepared to make all the notes on a larger screen than my phone.

With a cold refreshment and a hot pretzel, I settle into my seat and the muse sings. Ideas hit, and I frantically type each thought.

Small town baseball success falls for his snarky agent.

Hawaiian vacation turns to secret baby.

League bad boy needs a marriage of convenience to fix his reputation.

Each idea could be their own storyline. For now, I let the fictions flow.

With my head bent downward during most of the game, I don’t notice the heavier rain clouds swiftly roll in, although I feel the temperature shift. A cold front blasts over the stadium, and I use my pullover as a blanket over my legs. Every once in a while, I rub at my bare arms, grappling with myself as to whether the sweatshirt would keep me warmer over my upper half versus my lower body.

A drizzle begins to pepper the stadium, and I tip up my tablet, so it doesn’t get wet. Within minutes, the sky opens up, and rain pours in the direction where I sit. I shove my tablet beneath the pullover and wrestle the material, attempting to stretch it over my bent knees, knowing it can only expand so far, protect me so much.

Some people quickly gather their belongings and head to the covered concourse. Others slip into plastic ponchos. And still, a few of us just sit out the brief shower.