Page 41 of Double Play

“Maybe I’m tired of men always telling me to smile when I really want to scream and stomp my feet. I want to throw something or lash out. But I don’t get to do that when I’m angry, or upset, or confused and lost.” She exhales heavily. “Men are merely passionate when that happens. But women are labelled hysterical and illogical.”

I feel like the world’s biggest asshole. Even bigger than ignoring her for months because of how she acted toward me during that first interview. My skin is too tight, my insides twisted. I never intended to make her feel this way.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. Sorry for every man who ever made her feel this way, but especially apologetic that I’ve just lumped myself into the club when it wasn’t really about a smile.

She licks her lips and blinks a few more times. “I need to be careful.”

“With your job?” I ask tentatively. I don’t want to jeopardize her position with The Den. I respect how she feels like she might be in a precarious position. What people think, compared to the truth. She deserves the job. She’s qualified for it. I’m not asking her to tell the world about us, not after only one night together. I simply don’t want to be used for nothing more than sex. I need something tangible. It doesn’t have to be a smile. I could be any kind of sign that she really sees me, like I see her.

Instead of being upset about something so trivial, I should be paying closer attention to how India communicates in other ways.

Her stunning vulnerability with me is her smile. She isn’t trusting anyone else with this side of her.

“With my heart.” India’s voice is so fragile when she answers. Yet her words pummel me with their force.

For half a second, this admission is like a fucking grin with full teeth and spread lips, but then my brows wrinkling with shock. “And you’re afraid I’ll hurt you?”

She looks away from me once more and then presses at my shoulder again, insinuating she wants me to move off her, but I’m not going anywhere until I understand what’s going on here.

“What am I missing?” Because I’m clearly in the dark.

“You know about Malakai, right?”

“You’re divorced.” Isaiah told me although the information came like an afterthought. He was chatting about some client and mentioned Penn was visiting India because of her divorce.

I’d jumped into an inquisition, barraging my friend with questions he didn’t want to answer.

When? What happened? What did he do to her?

Isaiah passed on sharing the particulars, other than when her divorce was final last summer.

“Malakai is a douchebag.” That’s all he’d given me. “India just wants to move on.”

It didn’t make sense. Richard Baker loved the guy. He’d practically hand-picked the investment banker for his daughter. Malakai was a huge fan of the Vegas Victors.

She tips back her eyes, like she can see over her head. “He slept with an intern. She was a college student.”

“What the fuck?” I hiss, scrambling back to balance on my knees, ass resting on my heels. I am not repulsed by India, but the situation. An intern? College-aged? A few choice words other than douchebag come to mind to describe Malakai. There is no excuse to cheat on your wife, especially with a near-child.

“He said I wasn’t sexy anymore.”

I fall forward, balancing on my arms again, caging her in. “He’s fucking blind.” My eyes scan her face. That crazy, dark hair. Those enticing silver eyes. The fullness of her lips.

“And he hated my career.”

“That’s fucking dumb.” She is an award-winning field reporter. Honored by a professional baseball team. She is practically a celebrity in the media industry.

“He said I never smiled anymore.”

Fuck. Just fuck, fuck, fuck! Why would she smile for him? I bet he belittled her job. He evidently belittled her appearance. And whether his affair was one night or ongoing, it was a sign that he was a dick. He didn’t deserve India’s brilliance or her beauty.

He didn’t warrant her smiles.

And fuck the idea of her smiling at me. I don’t need them either. This woman laid herself bare for me both with her body and now this nugget of truth.

“I’m so sorry that happened to you, Indie,” I whisper, stroking her hair again, brushing it back from the top of her head, and using a nickname I haven’t used in years. “And I’m a fucking idiot, too.”

I lower to kiss her, soft and sweet, pressing my apology into the tenderness of our meeting lips. But I’m also angry. Angry that someone treated her so poorly. Angry that someone hadn’t seen her worth, her talent. Angry that I’d pushed her as well.