Page 8 of Elevator Pitch

His head pops forward, eyes flashing like lightning. “I just lost the fucking Series.”

“Your team lost the Series, on a double play that couldn’t have been predicted. Most plays can’t. A bat hits a ball and there’s a bit of hope and a large prayer it goes where you intend. But the object of the game is for the opponent to try and catch that ball. And tonight, someone did.”

“He sure fucking did.” Ross’s sandpaper voice rises.

I don’t flinch but my skin pebbles. He isn’t frightening. He’s sadly angry or angrily sad but, most of all, from the set of his shoulders and the cinch of his brows, he looks defeated. Plus, his eyes are stormy, his mouth tight.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters, placing his hand on my forearm and absentmindedly rubbing up and down the hairs standing erect on my skin.

Twisting, he grabs the bottle on the stand, and one-handedly pours himself another sliver.

“Want to know a secret about me?” Leveling the playing field might ease some of the tension around him.

He finishes his pour but doesn’t drink. He simply holds the glass in his hand. His eyes brighten a smidge. Intrigued. Possibly eager to know something about me.

“I’m an author.” He doesn’t need to know I’m currently struggling with writer’s block. Or that I’m on a deadline that looms closer every day. Or that I haven’t published in over six months.

He stares blankly at me which is exactly the reaction I expected. People don’t know how to respond to such a declaration.

“What do you write?” he asks.

While again a typical response, Ross tips up his chin, his voice full of intrigue, and I’m thrown off by the genuine curiosity in his tone. His eyes are focused again on me, not glazing over as some people’s do.

“I write romance.” Here I brace myself for a detached huh and wait on the inevitable question of whether I write something similar to Fifty Shades of Grey, as if that book is the only example of romance on the market. God bless the author.

“Anything I’ve heard of?”

“Do you read romance?” I tilt my head. Color me purple if he does.

“No.”

I laugh. “Then no. It would be nothing you’ve heard of.”

He sets down his newest glass of alcohol, without taking a sip, and gazes at me. “Tell me more about what you write.” With his legs stretched outward, he crosses his ankles and clasps his hands in his lap like he’s settling in to listen.

I only told him this piece of me because he told me his secret. I anticipated that being the end of our truth sharing session, but Ross continues to surprise me. I can’t get a read on this unpredictable man. And I’m not certain what details to share about my career.

“Come on. Tell me. Give me the ten-second explanation.”

“Like an elevator pitch?”

He nods toward the hallway and a soft chuckle leaves his lips. “Is that what they call it? Feels appropriate.”

I swallow before I begin. “Currently, I’m toying with writing about a woman who enjoys two men. At once.”

Ross reaches for his glass again and gulps down the contents, then sets the empty container on the nightstand with a heavy thunk. “Is that what you want?”

“My character wants two men.”

“At the same time?”

“Something like that.”

“And you want two men to share you.”

I clear my throat. “My character wants two men to love her.”

“Love?” He scoffs. “You’re not talking about love.”