Page 12 of The Pitcher’s Proposal

I walk over to the couple and gesture toward our table. “We’re just leaving. You’re welcome to take this one.”

Relief spreads across the woman’s face. “That’s so kind of you.”

“Happy to.”

The man nods his thanks as they make their way over. By the time I return, Dakota has slipped on her coat and is waiting beside the table.

She studies me for a second before we start toward the door.

“What?” I ask.

She laughs softly. “You just keep surprising me.”

“How?”

“You have this reputation for being the guy who’s always joking around.” She steps through the door I’m holding open for her, and I follow her outside. “Then you do something like that without thinking twice.”

I shrug. “They needed a table.”

The afternoon is cool and gray, and the stadium rises at the end of the block. We walk close enough that our arms briefly come in contact a few times, but Dakota doesn’t move away.

“What are you going to do with the off-season?” she asks.

“Work out. Throw. Try not to lose my goddamn mind.”

“That sounds restful.”

“I might go somewhere for a few weeks.”

“Where?”

“No idea. Somewhere quiet.”

She glances at me with visible doubt. “You aren’t good at quiet.”

“I’m excellent at it.”

“Riiight.”

“I’ll probably eat nothing but garbage too,” I add. “No one around to stop me.”

“You better not.”

“Come over and supervise me?”

“There it is.” She shakes her head, but her smile remains. “Your flirting is back.”

“I’m starting to recover.”

“I noticed.”

We reach the stadium entrance where we need to separate. Her car is on the other side of the building, while mine is parked beneath the players’ entrance.

I want to ask her to dinner properly. After the coffee and conversation we just had, I think there’s a chance she might agree.

But I don’t want her saying yes because I lost or because she feels sorry for me. I want her to come because she chooses to.

“I’ve been craving Italian,” I say.