The Lineup(34)

So why don’t I just give in and go out with him? Because we are all kinds of wrong for each other. Jason always had a harem of girls around him in college, but he wasn’t one of those assholes that led girls on and then fucked and dumped. As I’ve thought about him—a little obsessively—I recall how kind he was. Funny, idiotic, but not conceited. I mean, I had a crush on him for a reason. He’s a romancer, a gift giver, the type of man you cling on to and never let go.

You know what I’m talking about . . . the kind of man you take home to your parents.

Sounds great, right?

Well, I had that with Nick.

And he screwed me over, broke my heart, and left me in pieces I’ve had to pick up and tape everything back together.

I’m not going to do that to myself. So even though Jason is tempting, I’m not going for it.

But I will say this, Jason with his shirt off in a broken elevator? It’s not a bad end to my day. He’s a vision to behold with his shirt off: tan, not a jersey line in sight somehow, chiseled and sculpted like a marble monument with a tiny splattering of clipped hair in the middle of his chest.

If I did let myself go and give in to temptation, I would start with that chest hair, letting my fingertips glide over the incredibly short strands, then travel over his thick pecs and down his torso where I would spend an almost indecent amount of time fingering his abs. I would glide my digits through the ridges, coming close to his waistline but never close enough. I would enjoy seeing him squirm, watching him ache with need. It would be such a turn-on that I would straddle him and, without a second thought, begin to ride his lap, letting our centers collide and— “Are you okay?”

“What?” I ask, snapping out of my thoughts.

“It didn’t seem like you were breathing. Are you breathing? Oh wait, I get it.” He dramatically shakes his head. “You want me to give you mouth-to-mouth. Once again, very clever.”

He’s ridiculously cute, and it’s frustrating.

“Yup, that’s it.” In a begging voice that is entirely fake, I clasp my hands together and say, “Please, Jason, will you please, please give me mouth-to-mouth? I can’t seem to find my breath anywhere; I need yours to replenish my depleted lungs.”

“Damn, girl, I had no idea.” He lunges toward me, lips puckered. “Open up.”

Before he can close in on my lips, I halt his head with my palm, just as a wave of his fresh cologne surrounds me. Ugh, why does he have to smell so masculine? It’s unfair that men’s cologne can induce an orgasm, or at least get pretty close to it.

“I was kidding.”

“I’m not,” he says, his lips brushing against my palm as he speaks. “You’re turning purple. Quick, lie down; I got you, babe.”

I give him a shove and he laughs, sitting back against the elevator door and putting his shirt back on.

Damn it, he could have kept that off.

“You know, the attraction you’re feeling for me is too strong, so it’s best we just stay as friends. I don’t want you falling in love with me so hard that I can’t catch up to your feelings. Friends is really where we should stay.”

“Friends aren’t necessary.”

“Oh, now you’re just trying to protect your heart. I get it, Dottie. I really do. So after we’re let out of this tin box, I say we go our separate ways, our hearts intact.”

“I think that’s the most intelligent thing you’ve said since I met you.”

“Well, I’m just full of surprises, aren’t I?”

He really is, surprises that are starting to eat away at my cold exterior. And that’s a problem. Because that’s what I’ll never allow to happen . . . again.

Cute, sexy, crazy baseball player be damned.





“Albert, Bart, Chris, Darrel . . . Emmitt, Uh, Franklyn, George, Harrison, Ichabod . . . umm . . .” I wince. “Jake?”

“No,” Jason groans. “Jesus Christ, woman. Jorge, it was Jorge.” Jason throws his arms in the air, clearly distressed over the stupid ABC game we’re playing. “We are never going to make it all the way to Z with the kind of gnat brain you have.”

“Hey, you screwed up once too.”

“Because you said the most abstract girl name I’ve ever heard and I couldn’t remember it for the life of me.”

“Abstract means you remember it better.”

“Abstract means I’m going to forget how to pronounce it in seconds.”

“Oh, I forgot, you get hit in the head with balls for a living.”

He scoffs. “No, I don’t. If I did, I wouldn’t be a damn good catcher, one of the best in the league, thank you very much.” He sighs and shifts his body so he’s lying completely on the floor, his shirt as a pillow. Yes, he’s removed his shirt again, and I’m not complaining one bit. “What kind of name is Euphemia anyway?”

“Oh, now you get it right.”

“Well, you screamed it at me five times in a row as your spittle smacked me in the face, drilling it in my brain.”

“There was no spittle.”

“Oh . . . there was spittle,” he says, his voice full of humor.

Damn him for making me smile again. That’s what the last twenty minutes have been—him being ridiculous, me trying not to smile. I’ve finally resolved to laying my head on my purse so I don’t have to look directly at him.