America's Geekheart (Bro Code #2)(21)

I pull back, because dude, personal space.

This growing fascination is clearly not reciprocated. “Sorry. Forgot about the bubble.”

She shifts those big dark eyes at me, her brows furrowing like I’m a weirdo.

“Personal bubble,” I clarify. “Ellie reminds me every time I’m in town that not everyone’s comfortable with a stranger being all up in their junk.”

Mackenzie coughs. “How many people are watching?” she asks Sarah, who mumbles a number in response.

“Did you just say five million?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Holy shit, Sarah. That’s ten times as many people as were watching yesterday.”

She doesn’t answer, but her cheeks are getting a splotchy red.

“Whoa, did you see that strike?” I say.

Mackenzie glances at the TV, then back at Sarah. “Five million. Not bad for a little bit of public attention with a short video,” she says quietly.

Sarah shovels a handful of popcorn into her mouth and shuts down the giraffe cam. She’s leaning against the armrest, giving herself a lot of physical space. And she’s not looking at either of us, but instead puts all her attention on the game.

And I’m suddenly insanely curious as to why she hates the limelight.

It’s obvious she does.

But not obvious why.

I know some people are just shy. But I also know she went out and grilled the private security guards we put on the street—for her and Ellie and Wyatt and Tucker—and asked questions most people wouldn’t know to ask.

And last night’s I speak Hollywood—there’s a story hiding under all that thick dark hair and behind those big brown eyes.

And whatever it is, if we can get past it, maybe she’ll still appreciate the extra attention for the giraffes.

Maybe I’m not a total asshole for being here to ask her if we can play the accidental lovers for the world.

Tampa scores twice more, and when the first inning is finally over, Sarah rises and stretches, pulling her jersey high and exposing the barest hint of smooth olive skin at her waist.

I’ve done shoots with supermodels that haven’t left me insanely desperate to know if their skin was as soft as it looks, and I have to shift in my seat to combat the swelling problem in my crotch.

Maybe if she tasers me again, it’ll undo whatever the first shock did yesterday.

Except I’m not actually annoyed at my body’s reaction to her.

More curious.

And definitely intrigued.

But still wary.

“That was fun,” she says with a grimace. “I’m going to check on my bees.”

I watch her hips sway under her jersey while she strolls out of the room and into the kitchen.

And I don’t even realize I’m watching her ass until she disappears.

But I notice when she’s gone.





Eleven





Sarah



Holy hell, he was close.

I step out into the sunshine and take my first full breath since Beck arrived. My bees are buzzing around the wildflower gardens lining the privacy fence, darting between their blocky wooden hives and the petals, and the gentle hum makes my shoulders relax even more.

I tuck myself into one of the outdoor lounge chairs under my pergola after making sure the little fairy fountains set up around my small yard have fresh water, and I pull out my phone again. I’m doing a quick search for my parents’ names on Twitter—even though I’d rather google for a hint about my Vikings in Space game or prep more tweets about the giraffes or even just watch Persephone in her enclosure at the zoo—when my back door opens and the underwear ape sticks his head out.

“Hey. You want some of these fries? I can’t tell when your friend’s being serious about you selling your soul for bacon cheese fries, but I’m definitely not going to pass up a chance to prove I have culinary skills in addition to all these amazing good looks.”

Is he really the kindhearted slightly egotistical goofball he’s playing? Or is it an act? “If you find it in my kitchen, odds are good I enjoy eating it,” I say.

Not all smart-ass.

More teasing. Because honestly, it’s hard not to relax a little when he’s being a total goofball. The self-deprecation in his amazing good looks line was so thick, you could smear it on toast.

And it works, because he grins that bright smile that makes his deep blue eyes crinkle at the edges. “It’s not just for your cat?”

“I’m not interested in pretending to be your girlfriend,” I announce.

So maybe I don’t have all the teasing in me.

He ambles out, long arms loose despite being tucked into his jeans pockets.

Also, who wears jeans in this weather? It’s pushing eighty-five, but here he is fancy denim that fits his slender hips like they were built for him, which they probably were because of course he’ll be wearing his own line of clothes, and a mint green button-down that should make him as dangerous as a plastic Easter egg but instead is cut just right around his wide shoulders, tapering down his trim waist and hanging at mid-crotch, which is probably the length that clothing scientists determined was most likely to induce lust-comas among the general female population.

I have no idea how they determine such things, but I do know that his shirt ending mid-crotch is making me think about his crotch, which is a bad, bad idea.