Page 17 of The Pitcher’s Proposal

“Yep.”

“How high?”

“Penthouse.”

She closes her eyes. “Right. Of course.”

I squeeze her hand. “Come upstairs. I’ll show you the roof.”

A few minutes later, we’re stepping onto the rooftop terrace. The city stretches out below us, and the night is clear, the moon big and bright above the buildings. Dakota walks toward the railing, her expression soft as she looks around.

“It’s so beautiful up here,” she says.

I go to stand beside her. For a few minutes, we don’t talk. The quiet doesn’t bother me at all, which is probably another sign of how fucked I am. Most of my life is noise. Stadiums, clubhouses, reporters, teammates. Dakota is one of the few people I can stand beside without feeling any urge to fill the silence.

“When I was little, my dad used to take me outside to look at the moon,” she says. “If it was really bright, he’d come get me before bed and we’d sit on the back steps for a while.”

I glance at her. “Your brother too?”

“He’d come out, but he’d usually get bored and go back inside. I stayed.” She smiles faintly. “Dad always acted like we were getting away with something because Mom wanted me in bed.”

“That’s sweet.”

“It was.” Her gaze stays on the sky for another moment before she looks at me. “Thank you for tonight.”

I look at her. God, she’s gorgeous. “You had a good time?”

“A very good time.”

“Good enough that I get another one?”

Dakota pretends to consider it. “I suppose it’s possible.”

“What are you doing tomorrow?”

She laughs. “Brendan.”

“What?”

“Maybe give me twenty-four hours.”

“I gave you eight months.”

“You asked me out about twice a week.”

“Exactly. That’s a lot of patience.”

She’s still smiling when I kiss her. I don’t think about it. I don’t say anything clever. I just bend my head and put my mouth on hers.

The second she kisses me back, I’m done for. Her lips are soft and sweet, and when I deepen the kiss, Dakota’s hand wraps around the back of my neck. She rises onto her toes, pressing closer, and the quiet sound she makes goes directly to my cock.

I’ve imagined kissing her more times than I can count. In the clubhouse. On team flights. In hotel hallways when she stood too close to me. None of it got this right.

I slow down our kiss, tasting her until I feel her hand slide up into my hair. That nearly finishes whatever control I have left. When I pull back, Dakota’s lips are parted and her cheeks are flushed. She looks up at me in a daze before smiling.

“Jesus,” she murmurs. “That was worth waiting eight months for.”

I laugh, mostly because otherwise I’m going to kiss her again and forget we’re standing on my roof. “Come inside for a drink.”