Page 91 of Praising the Pitcher

“Yeah, no problem.”

“Thanks!” she says before she walks away, letting the door shut.

I watch her disappear into the night, never so much as looking at Jameson, though he certainly looks at her.

And follows her too.

Noah turns the lock on the door and struts my way, grinning like a fool and oozing the kind of confidence that borders on being cocky. Then again, how could he not be confident? He knows how good he looks.

He’s wearing his letterman jacket, and even though I’ve always loved how he looks in it, the fact his team won the championship this year makes it even more special. Watching him at those games gave me a sense of pride I can’t even explain. I kind of love that our seasons don’t collide too much. That way, I can be at most of his games and hopefully, he can be at the majority of mine too.

“Well that was interesting,” he drawls, stopping just before he reaches me. “What’s the deal with those two?”

“Heck if I know.” I shrug. “She’s a tough nut to crack.”

“So is he,” Noah says nonchalantly, zero humor in his tone.

Like, he’s actually serious.

My head snaps back and I frown. “Jameson?” I blurt out. Clearly we can’t be talking about the same person. “You must be joking?”

His lips turn up and he huffs a laugh. “Nah, I’m actually not.”

“He takes nothing seriously at all,” I say, thinking out loud. “Like … zero. I think he’s about as deep as puddle after it sprinkles outside for five minutes. Which, news flash, isn’t deep at all.”

I haven’t been around Jameson a ton, but from what I can see, there isn’t much I’m missing about him. He’s the life of the party, always has a different woman—or two—on his arm. Spends his time trying to make people laugh or impress them.

The guy doesn’t leave much to wonder about—so no, I didn’t consider him tough to crack. Hell, I think most everyone who he comes in contact with has him figured out within thirty seconds.

Noah stuffs a hand in his pocket, leaning against one of the large shelves. “It’s a mask, babe. An act. Something that makes him look to everyone like he’s happy. And like he doesn’t give a fuck.”

Noah says that like he’s so sure, and my eyes narrow, wondering how he’d know all this. He must read the confusion on my face because he shrugs.

“I think there’s a lot more to the guy than he wants anyone to know. That’s all I’m saying.” He jerks his chin toward some books. “Like in some of those filthy books you read, the guy acts like a total dick, but deep down, he’s a marshmallow that’s been put in the microwave for five seconds too long.”

I lift a brow, smirking. “I knew you’d been reading over my shoulder,” I tease, knowing it’s true. He was nosey about what kinds of books were occupying my time, and me being me, I was always too embarrassed to tell him.

“Gotta see if the guy you’re ignoring me for has a bigger dick than I do.” He rolls his eyes. “So far, all of them basically have a fucking oversized, twelve-inch eggplant between their legs. Like that’s accurate.”

“Someone’s jealous,” I coo, knowing he has nothing to be jealous of. “And it’s called fiction for a reason, King.”

I grab a few books and head into the aisle they belong. I’m close enough to talk back and forth with Noah while still getting my shit done before ten o’clock at night.

I tuck one book back where it goes, standing on my tippy toes before I hear his footsteps against the wooden floor, and when I turn back around, he’s a few feet in front of me.

“Jealous of what, Smoke?” he asks, his voice low, and I know he’s challenging me.

“I don’t know,” I return coyly. “You tell me.”

His eyes narrow briefly before he smirks. “You know, you seem to read an awful lot of books where they fuck in public. Last night, he was going to town on her pussy and they were literally in a bathroom at a bar.” He grimaces. “Which, by the way, do you know how nasty bathrooms are? Never mind ones at bars, where Billy Bob can’t aim for the toilet after five or six drinks.”

“I mean, they weren’t on a toilet seat while they banged.” I cringe. “Thankfully …”

“Still, a bathroom?” He shakes his head, wearing a disgusted look on his face. “That’s fucking gross. Nah, if I was going to take you somewhere public, it would have to be somewhere clear. Somewhere … somewhat nice.” His eyes roam, looking around, and even though he doesn’t say it, it hits me what he’s implying.

I stare at him, half disturbed, half turned on, and still too shy to say much of anything. Finally, I swallow.

“You don’t mean …” My voice trails off, and his grin grows.