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“Taking advantage of me,” he echoes, his lips curving as his hand settles on my thigh, instantly setting my panties ablaze all over again. “Is that really what you’re worried about?”
“What else would I be worried about?”
“The fact that you like my hands on you,” he murmurs so softly I can barely hear him over the rumble of the train. “Your breath comes faster every time I touch you.”
I exhale. “You don’t have to sound so proud of yourself.”
“I’m not proud of myself,” he says. “I’m hopeful. And turned on. There’s a big difference between the two.”
“Turned on?’ I echo before I can stop myself.
“Yeah. Knowing you like my touch half as much as I love touching you turns me on. And gives me hope that once I get you in my bed, you won’t want to leave.”
I swallow, struggling to come up with a breezy, smartass comment to defuse the moment, but my head is full of images of Sam with his mouth on my neck and his hand slipping down the front of my pants. The only words I can come up with are, “New subject.”
For a beat, I think he’s going to stay right where he is, so close that the smell of him—expensive cologne, honeyed-tea breath, and his addictive Sam scent—is going to make me do things I really don’t want to do. Making out with Sam may very well be in my future, but I don’t want to suck face on a train. I’m not a teenager, a drunk tourist, or an exhibitionist, thank you very much.
I like my kissing the way I like my true-crime novels—in bed, under the covers, with my nice underwear on. (If I die from fright, I want to go out wearing nice panties and my fuzzy socks.)
But after a moment, Sam leans back into his seat and crosses his long legs. “Okay. How about those Mets? Think we have a shot at a subway series this year?”
“Not a chance in hell,” I say. “The Yankees are going to destroy them. As usual.”
“It’s gross that you’re a Yankees fan. Where’s your underdog pride?”
“You’re gross. And watching the Yankees play is the one thing my father and I ever did alone, without Mom in tow,” I say. “Those memories are special to me.” I shrug, lifting my chin as I add, “And the Yankees draft hotter players. That’s just a fact, my friend, proven by science.”
He grins. “Yeah? Science? Biologists, I assume?”
“Butt-ologists,” I shoot back. “It’s the study of fine backsides, especially pro-athlete backsides. It’s a fascinating discipline.”
“Dabble in it yourself now and then?” he asks, nudging my shoulder with his.
“Of course,” I say, returning the playful nudge. “You know I love science. I’m a STEM girl from way back.”
“Then you should come with me to my friend Jack’s company picnic Friday afternoon. He’s a financial advisor who specializes in managing the portfolios of pro-athletes. All his current and prospective clients are invited. I’m imagining there will be a wide variety of finely honed backsides on display. A veritable smorgasbord for an amateur butt-ologist.” He shifts closer, making room for a large man making his way carefully toward the bathroom at the front of the car, adding in a whisper, “And he’s getting the good hot dogs. The fat ones from Coney Island.”
I swipe the side of my mouth with a snort. “Oh my God, that almost made me drool. Seriously. Just hearing you mention those hot dogs. What do they put in those things? It has to be some sort of addictive substance.”
He nods. “Heroin maybe. Or an unholy mixture of salt with a tiny bit of cinnamon and sugar that makes you crave them when the moon is full.”
“Definitely one or the other,” I say, grinning up at him as he tips his head closer to mine.
“So, are you coming with me to the picnic? If so, I should text Jack that I’ll have a plus-one. And warn him that she’s coming hungry for dogs and baseball player backsides.”
“Yes, I will join you. Thank you for the invitation.”
“You’re welcome.” He pulls out his phone, nudging my shoulder again. “It’s a date.”
A date…
We’re practically on a date right now, and despite my attempts to keep things casual by dressing like I was going to the skate park with the middle school kids down the block, yesterday was very date-like, too. And we both just admitted that we’re having more-than-friends feelings for each other.
Might as well call this what it is.
It’s…dating.
And no, that isn’t the course we originally charted, but it doesn’t change things that much, either. There may be more flirting and sexual tension than anticipated, but in the end, the result will be the same. Sam will fly back to his fabulous life in the UK, and I’ll stay here. Even if I get the Paradisus job, I won’t be moving anytime soon. I want to enjoy my last year of living with Harlow and Evie, and I’ve learned my lesson about rushing into major life changes.
