Page 5 of A Really Bad Idea

So, yeah, it’s been an interesting two years.

With my dish of ravioli in hand and a glass of pinot noir, I cuddle up on the sofa and enjoy my dinner. I’m only about two bites in when my cell phone rings.

Christian’s Facebook picture appears on the screen. It’s him in a wet white T-shirt, taken on his father’s boat last year. The way his broad chest is on full display through the sheer fabric sends a quiver through me every time I see it, and I remind myself for the hundredth time to change his ridiculous picture on my phone.

I answer the call, “You’re supposed to be drinking beer and yelling at the umpire.”

His throaty chuckle is loud despite the crowd cheering in the background. “Turn on the TV. I’m behind home plate and waving to you.”

The remote is on the arm of the couch when I grab it. I turn on the television and flip through the channels. “How am I supposed to know where you are?”

“Just turn it on.”

The game is on Fox with a wide shot of the field, showing two runners on base. The camera stays on the handsome faces of the ballplayers, and I’m not one to argue with that.

“I don’t see your ugly mug, but hello, Giancarlo Stanton, you handsome devil, you. Do you think he’s single?”

“Are you trying to break my heart?”

I giggle as I watch the camera switch to the home plate view as a new player walks up to bat. “Okay. I’m looking behind home plate. I don’t see—” I pause as my eye catches something bright pink in the stands, just to the right of the batter. I squint in recognition. “Are you wearing a neon fishing hat?”

Now knowing the camera is on him, Christian waves from his seat. He’s already an imposing man with his strong build and naturally tan skin, but with the fluorescent-pink hat on his head, he is downright ridiculous.

“I lost a bet with my dad, and now, I have to wear this the entire game.”

“Why is it pink? And why aren’t they kicking you out for distracting the pitcher?”

“It’s my mom’s. The old man knew what he was doing when he wagered wearing a hat to the game as the ante.”

“He’s a sucker!” Thomas says into the phone from his seat next to Christian.

I scrunch my nose in confusion. “What was the bet?”

Christian pauses as the crowd around him cheers for a base hit. When the celebration dies down, he answers, “That the centerfield line at Citi Field is exactly the same as Yankee Stadium.”

“He totally fooled you into that bet,” I say and take a bite of ravioli.

The view on the television screen goes back to the batter’s box. I can see Christian hunched to the side of his seat, his finger in his ear as he talks on the phone.

“What are you doing right now?” he asks.

“Enjoying dinner while watching you talk on the phone in a ridiculous hat from the most high-profile seat at Citi Field, and then I’m hopping into a warm bath.”

“Want company?”

“You’re crude.” I take a sip of my pinot.

He leans back with a laugh. “Usually, when a woman tells me she’s about to get naked, it’s an invitation to come over.”

“Not with that hat you’re wearing. Besides, I’m not one of your usual women.”

There’s a slight pause on his end.

“That you’re not.” There’s another round of cheers and jeers as the Yankees batter hits a pop-up to the Mets second baseman. “But, seriously, want company? I can swing by after the game.”

“Thanks, but no, thanks.” I let out a loud yawn. “I’m crashing early tonight. My boss is a slave driver.”

“Imagine being raised by him,” he shouts over the music playing in the background as the players switch positions on the field.