The Dugout(58)

It’s hard not to think of this thing between us as more of a one-way connection since I still can’t believe Carson wants me. Out of all the girls he could have, he chose me, but I’m going to get there.

“Still a Bobbie for life,” I answer.

“What if I’m drafted by the Warriors? Does that mean you’re going to be a Bobcats, Storm, and Warriors fan?”

“Looks like I’ll have to make room for a new pennant.” I drag my finger down his coarse cheek. “But once a Bobbie, always a Bobbie. Sorry.”

He grumbles and then asks, “Okay, who would you want to win in a World Series? Or better yet, Fuck, Chuck, or Marry. My team, Cory’s team, and the Bobcats.”

“Impossible.” I shake my head. “I can’t answer that.”

“Fine, it’s my team and the Bobcats in a World Series, whose shirt are you wearing?”

“Do you really want to know?”

He slips his hand under my shirt so his fingers caress my bare skin. “I do.”

“Do you really think your hand up my shirt is going to sway my decision?”

“I would hope that your extremely attractive and talented boyfriend would sway your decision.”

My heart skips a beat at the mention of boyfriend. He’s jumping both feet into this, which can only mean one thing: he really likes me.

“Boyfriend, huh?” I tease.

“Yeah, which means you’re off the market.”

I snort. “You have nothing to worry about. There’s no one lining up for the position.”

His eyebrows sharpen, and the smile that’s been a permanent fixture on his face quickly fades.

“Hey, let’s get one thing straight. You’re not allowed to talk so poorly about yourself anymore. Just because you’ve never been in a relationship doesn’t make you any less special. It means the guys you’ve met weren’t intelligent enough to realize how incredible you really are.” He pauses and says, “Also, you were wearing a fisherman’s hat to baseball games, so . . .”

“You’re an ass.” I laugh and push him off me, but he quickly pins me to the ground, hands at my side, his nose brushing against mine.

“It was a hideous hat on a drop-dead gorgeous girl.”

My breathing picks up as I realize every time he says I’m pretty, a little piece of the puzzle that makes me whole melts away, becoming a piece of him. My brothers and my dad have always told me I’m pretty, but that’s because it’s their obligation to say so. But no one has looked at me the way Carson does and called me drop-dead gorgeous, or sexy, or beautiful. I’ve never associated myself with those words either. There have been days where I’ve felt cute, but never really beautiful. It’s why it’s so hard for me to actually accept the compliment.

“Aren’t you going to kiss me?”

“Are you fishing for kisses after saying such sweet things?”

“Compliments are free, no payment necessary. But I’ll take anything you’re willing to hand over.”

I have a feeling it’s going to be next to impossible for me to deny this man anything, especially when he looks at me like that, with such admiration. Part of me wonders why I never saw it before, but now that I truly think about it, everything he did to get closer . . . I should have known . . . if I thought it was a possibility. And let’s face it, I didn’t. It’s not about a low self-image, because I like who I am and know from my family and closest friends that I’m lovable. Perhaps I’ve simply believed the lies that only a certain shape, certain dress style, and a certain personality catches the attention of attractive men.

Releasing my hand from his grip, I glide it up his neck to his hair where I weave my fingers through the short strands and then bring his head closer so our lips barely touch.

“If it were your team against the Bobcats in the World Series, your girlfriend would be proud to wear your shirt.”

“Damn right.” He smiles right before pressing his lips to mine.

Carson’s kisses are unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. They not only make my stomach somersault with excitement, but they flip a switch in my body, making every inch of my skin tingle.

He’s gentle but demanding. Soft, but hard, with the pressure he applies with his hands, his body. He doesn’t just kiss with his lips. He kisses with his entire being, pressing his hips against mine, holding me adoringly with his hands, maneuvering his tongue around mine, showing me how much he wants me.

It’s hot.

Consuming.

And I can easily see myself getting lost in his touch.

His hand falls to the juncture of my neck and shoulder where his thumb rubs across my collarbone. Featherlight strokes awaken my senses even more, igniting the many dull and lifeless parts of my body.

I deepen the kiss, pulling him even closer. Our mouths collide, our tongues dance, and the beat of our hearts hammer wildly as we kiss under the one single light of a ballpark.

I couldn’t ask for a more perfect moment.





Hand clutched to mine, Carson walks me to my car and then pushes me against the driver’s side door. We dropped his “picnic” items off at his car first so they didn’t get in the way of the make-out session. At least that’s what Carson said.

“I’ve never made out with a coach before,” he says, pinning me with his hips and moving his hands up my waist.