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“We should stay put then.” He stops in the middle of the room. Finn is a big guy, but he’s somehow swallowed inside these four walls, his superstar status brought down to earth. He likes this space, he’s comfortable. Which will translate into great pictures.You know what you’re doing, Chloe. Relax.
“Okay.”
The room is made up of cool grays and dark woods. The king-sized bed is unmade, white sheets ruffled under a gray down comforter, and I can already picture him lounging there, smiling for me. Only it’s not for me, it’s for the thousands of women about to fall in love with him. I look away and step toward the floor-to-ceiling windows that allow natural light to spill into the room. A cozy nook to my left includes a small couch, ottoman, and television. To my right, a bookshelf holds framed photographs and baseball memorabilia.
Outside is a large terrace, beyond which is a perfect view of the ocean. I imagine on a clear day Finn can see Catalina Island.
He comes to stand beside me. “On a clear day you can see for miles.”
“I was just thinking that. Did you know the word ocean comes from the Greek wordokeanos, which means great stream encircling the earth’s disk?”
“I do now, Webster.”
“Good, because there may be a pop quiz later.” I am such a dork.
“Yeah, what do I get if I pass?”
“What do you want?” I flirt back. I can’t help myself.
“A date.”
“Sorry, Charlie.” I turn away. My dating days are over. Not that I have any delusions about one date with Finn turning into something more, but even a single dinner would be too much with him. I like him. Which means he’s destined to break my heart. “I never date anyone who doesn’t make his bed.”
“Ah, well see that excuse doesn’t work on me. Sylvie makes my bed and is slacking this morning.”
I push him in the shoulder. “That’s worse, Mr. Spoiled.”
He flinches. “Ow.”
“Oh shit. I’m so sorry! Are you okay? What can I do?”
“Keep two feet back?” he teases, but I still feel terrible. If only he’d kept the sling on, I wouldn’t have forgotten myself. “Also, I was joking about the bed. Normally I make it, but with the fracture, I’m taking it easy. I’m actually a little embarrassed you’re seeing it this way.”
“Don’t tell me you’re a neat freak.”
“Okay, I won’t tell you. But playing ball eight to nine months out of the year, you develop a routine and an order to things. Coach doesn’t stand for sloppy behavior on or off the field. Plus, my mom taught us it’s nicer and more inviting to get into a made bed rather than an unmade one.”
“I highly doubt anyone would say no to getting into your bed, made or not.”
He arches an eyebrow, setting off a flutter in my belly. Before he says something playful to poke at the waking butterflies, I add, “Let’s get you ready to get in it. Do you need help with your shirt?” It’s the least I can do after nudging his bad shoulder.
“Sure.”
I have the feeling he’d say yes to help whether he needed it or not. “Permission to approach?”
“Permission granted,” he says, eyes shining.
I step in front of him. He’s wearing black pajama bottoms and a light green cotton T-shirt and I love that he didn’t feel the need to change clothes before I arrived. It won’t always work in his favor, but it did this time. “Ready?”
He nods.
I help guide his good arm out of his sleeve first. His skin is warm, his biceps big. And hard. So hard. I think about all the baseballs he’s thrown with this arm, the incredible skill and talent. He’s won two Gold Glove awards for his superior fielding, a double honor few players achieve. What would it feel like to be tucked under this strong, accomplished arm? Amazing, I bet.
Next, I lift up on my tiptoes to stretch the material over his head. He smells like man and lazy mornings, and I take a second whiff while his shirt covers his eyes. His soft, light brown hair springs back to its sexy, unruly state after I get the warm cotton off. Then I gently slide the shirt straight down his left arm, careful not to bump him in any way.
I toss the shirt onto the bench at the foot of his bed.
“Thanks.”
