Long Ball(47)

The thing about Alex is it’s impossible to get mad at her—even when you want to be. And it’s almost impossible to say no to her. This time when I sneak a glance, Tattooed Guy smiles at me, revealing even, white teeth and a dimple on his left cheek. God, he’s delicious.

“Careful, Rachel. He might think you’re going steady if you keep looking at him like that. Time to raise the stakes and flash him an ankle.”

“Excuse me, girls, sorry to interrupt,” the waiter interrupts my search for a witty retort.

“Yes?” Alex trills like she was expecting this all along.

He leans closer to me and gestures at the Tattooed Guy, who jerks his head up in a nod of recognition. “That gentleman has requested you join him.”





2





For three shaky inhalations I’m frozen by possibility, by temptation. By his naughty mouth.

But my new job…

I swallow hard. “Please thank the gentleman for his invitation, but tell him we’re on a girls’ night.”

“Rachel!” Alex looks like she wants to catapult me into his booth.

“Thank you,” I say more firmly to the waiter, dismissing him. “I can’t, Alex.”

“I know no such thing,” she pouts. “Do you care to explain?”

If she knew the conditions I’d agreed to in order to secure my position on the symphony, she’d drop the whole thing and for half a second I consider telling her.

But I’m not supposed to say anything about it. And, honestly, I don’t want her to know. Also, there’s a chance that if she did know, she’d encourage a one-night fling even more.

So I give her other equally good reasons that I can’t hook-up tonight. “Let’s say I go over and talk to him and he’s not a complete jerk. Maybe he’s even interested in me.” And we go to his place and have amazing sex that blows my mind and changes me.

No, no. Don’t go there.

I shake my head. “Then what?”

Alex snaps her fingers and waggles her head. “Then you leave here with a spring in your step and a twinkle in your eye.”

“No. Because it sets me up for disappointment. It kills the fantasy. Right now I can pretend he knows female anatomy and has a dick wider than my pinkie. What’s the point of finding out I’m wrong?”

“You are not wrong. That boy is hung, I promise you. You can tell by that cocky glint…” She trails off and I follow her stare to his table where a woman is sliding into the place next to him with a giant smile. Her tank top is dangerously low cut, jeans painted on, but she looks completely in her element, breezy smile on her glossy lips. He doesn’t object to her presence.

“Right. And I’m supposed to be his type?” Obviously, Tattooed Guy isn’t that sad about my refusal, because he nods and smiles at the woman, letting her hand wander up his shoulder.

“She took your open door.” Alex is more disappointed than it’s worth.

“She can have it. I’m moving and don’t have time for dalliances.”

“The fact you just called booty calls ‘dalliances’ only further argues my case.”

“Whatever. I’m going to the bathroom.” I take my clutch with me, planning to refresh my lip-gloss while I’m in there. Because it’s wiped away on my wine glass, not because of him.

Okay, also because of him.

Unfortunately, the hallway to the Ladies room is right next to Tattooed Guy’s booth. I feel like a high school girl trying to slip past my crush after my friend went and sent him a ‘check yes or no’ note on my behalf. Keeping a casual pace—I don’t want it to look like I’m sprinting to the bathroom—I manage to get to his table without him noticing me. Then again, it isn’t that hard seeing how distracted he is by his visitor, now practically draped across his lap.

He’s even more attractive up close, his chiselled features less perfect but more stunning in their flaws. His shirt hugs his chest and arms hinting at spectacular muscles hidden underneath.

And that mouth. That sinful, seductive mouth.

I memorize every part of him I can in the few seconds it takes to pass him. Like I said to Alex—he’s perfect fantasy material. I want to remember as much of him as I can when I recreate him in my head alone in the dark later tonight. The scene is already starting to form in my mind—he unbuttons his jeans, that sassy smirk on his lips as he lowers them and his boxers just enough to spring out, hard and stone and definitely bigger than my pinkie.

Moisture pools beneath my legs and I pick up my step.

I duck into the bathroom and firmly slide the lock into place, breathing in the cooler air in the stall. I never think about strangers’ packages. Especially not so vividly. It’s got to be the wine, or the move. Or the situation with my job. All of it. I know I’m making the right decision—it’s the only decision I can make. But tonight for some reason, I feel certainty swirling away from me.

No pun intended, I chuckle, and flush with my foot before exiting the stall, glad the bathroom’s empty.

A few tendrils of hair have escaped my ponytail, and once I’ve washed my hands, I smooth them down, noting my flushed cheeks. Snow White indeed. I waffle about the lip-gloss, deciding to reapply in the end. Because I feel confident wearing it and I need that right now.