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“They don’t know what each other tastes like either.” The words came out unintentionally and gravelly, and just as I was about to apologize for them, I registered the way Leah’s breath hitched.

It was almost relieving to know I still affected her the way she did me.

“Touché,” she said, voice lacking her usual jesting tone. She sighed, then conceded, “You’re right. Every part of this process would be easier if I didn’t struggle with making friends.”

Sensing an opening, I pushed. “We could start smaller.”

“Smaller like small talk?” I could picture her face scrunching up, the freckles across her nose coming together like a cloud.

“No, just … simpler things. Like …” I sucked in a deep breath and tried to think about something benign that would still tell me something about Leah as a person. And all I could think of was … “How do you like your coffee?”

“Oh. When ordering from a shop, I prefer a mocha. But at home, I just use a hazelnut blend and chocolate milk instead of creamer.” She spoke slowly, caught off guard by the question and probably confused as to the relevancy. But it told me she liked rich sweets. And now I had her literal coffee order, which had to come up at some point.

I remembered Jimenez saying something about keeping a list of things his wife liked, so I grabbed a pen and napkin and jotted her coffee order down. I’ll have to get a notepad later to keep more organized notes about her, but this would do for now. And I’ll see if Jimenez has a system. Maybe green for food and blue for—

“What about you?”

“Huh?”

“How do you take your coffee?”

“Oh, I don’t really drink it.”

“Seriously? You never need that pick-me-up?” she asked with a gasp.

“Well, I’ll grab a cup if our hotel has it and we’ve got a red-eye, but I don’t have a preferred brew or anything.”

“I guess that’s better than drinking it black,” she said with a little yuck noise. “Some men act like sweet coffee is like cooties. You don’t get more man points for drinking sludge.”

“Duly noted. I’ll try a mocha next time.”

“Hmm, you’ll have to tell me what you think.” We fell silent for a few seconds, the sound, or lack thereof, soft. I didn’t feel as anxious as I was when she went quiet over text. I could hear her breathe, slow and relaxed, and my body mimicked it.

“So … what other softball get-to-know-you questions ya got?”

The Team Meeting

Leah

Apparently the key to me not feeling like I’d fall in love with Niall any second was to have him ask stupid questions. Questions like "how frequently are you going to the bathroom now" or "when was the last time you went to the beach." Just a bunch of benign, little things that didn’t mean much on their own.

It was kind of nice that someone knew little things about me again. It scared me a little, being so close to someone they knew my shoe size, but the slowness, softness, Niall brought to the conversation helped.

It also probably helped that we talked over the phone and I didn’t have to look at his handsome face and puppy dog eyes. Didn’t have to see the desire as he talked about fucking his fist to thoughts of me.

Note to self, look up what pregnancy does to horniness. Not like that man had any problem making me horny without the assistance of disturbed hormones, but I’d like something to blame it on if he caught me staring when we meet up today. Thankfully we were meeting at the stadium where he worked, so his teammates and other folks on the staff would be around to keep me and my hormones in check.

I sent Niall a text to let him know I parked, then tossed my phone in my bag and headed to the entrance. Or at least I think it was the entrance. The building was huge and I had no doubt I’d get lost trying to find Niall if he wasn’t already waiting for me at the door.

Just as I was reaching back for my phone to call him, the door crashed open and my heart rate spiked. But when the blur of a human settled, I realized it wasn’t Niall in front of me and was a little … disappointed.

“Leah?” the man asked, cocking his head to the side so that his blond hair flopped around.

“Uh, yeah?”

“I’m one of Christenson’s teammates. Brooker.” With the door resting on his side, he held out a hand to me. Moderately suspicious, I shook his hand and as soon as we touched, a cacophony of running and shouting sounded from the end of the hallway.

“Fuller, this is incredibly unprofessional,” Niall shouted, his voice muffled. I leaned around Brooker and he mirrored my movement to block my view.