America's Geekheart (Bro Code #2)(35)

She’s pensive again. “You chose that.”

“We did. Had a lot of fun. Still do. We talk sometimes about buying out an entire section of the bleachers just to try it again, but it’s not the same, being alone, just us. I like finding out the guy sitting in front of me collects signed baseballs and knows every player’s stats by heart. Or that the grandma two rows back is at her first game to give her first grandkid the birthday present of a lifetime. The realness of it. People being people.”

“You really like people.”

“People are fucking awesome.” They are. I don’t always trust them these days, but if I weren’t famous, I wouldn’t give it a second thought.

“What would you be if Bro Code had totally flopped?”

I open my mouth, but the words don’t come right out.

Because I’ve thought about it. Often, matter of fact, and more recently with Ellie’s accident putting a few things in perspective.

But I’ve never actually said it out loud.

A curious smile teases her lips. “What?” she asks again.

“It’s stupid,” I tell her. “I probably would’ve ended up working in middle management for my parents.”

“That’s stupid?”

“No. I mean, working for my parents wouldn’t be stupid. They’re rock stars. Not like, actual rock stars, not like Levi, but, you know, saving the world rock stars.”

“So what’s stupid?”

Shit, it’s getting warm in here. I glance back at the two bodyguards, who pretend they’re not listening.

“Are you blushing again?” Sarah whispers.

I scrub a hand over my face like I can wipe the pink away. “I wanted to be a doctor.”

“Why is that stupid?”

“Gotta be smart to be a doctor.”

“Being mildly clueless on social media is not the same as not being smart.”

“I was a B student at best.”

“And now you’ve seen the entire planet and launched a billion-dollar empire.”

“Building a fashion empire is not like brain surgery.” And it wasn’t even me. When the Giovanni of Giovanni & Valentino decided he wanted out, the empire crumbled, my non-compete clause evaporated, and Charlie suggested I sign on with an up-and-coming designer who needed some runway cred. I put my name on some loungewear, and it took off from there.

Not saying I didn’t have an eye for what the average guy wanted in casual wear and shoes and board shorts, and that I didn’t insist I’d only put my name on clothes that were actually comfortable to wear, just that it found me more than I found it, and I do a better job at hiring the right people and smiling pretty for the cameras in clothes I like than I do at being a fashion mogul.

“You wanted to be a surgeon?” Sarah asks.

“Nah, a pediatrician. More my speed, maturity-wise.”

She doesn’t laugh. “Can’t model underwear forever.”

“What? Of course I can. Got it all planned out. Underwear until I’m sixty, then I make Depends super sexy.”

“You could still do it.”

“Make Depends sexy?”

“No. Be a doctor.”

“Huh.” Right. Dr. Ryder. Not gonna happen. Even if I enrolled in college today, I’d be in my forties before I finished med school, and who wants a brand-new doctor who’s half-naked on all the billboards in town? “Oh, hey—look.”

I point to the scoreboard screen over right field.

Sarah glances over and does a double-take. “Is that—did you—” She whips her head around, looking at the sparsely-populated but slowly filling stands. “You got Persephone on the jumbotron.”

“Who, me? No way.” Of course I did. “She’s famous now. You made her famous. Bet they’re showing her all across the country.”

You can do it, Persephone! flashes across the bottom of the screen under the live feed of the giraffe swishing her tail and pacing in her concrete enclosure at the zoo. The words of encouragement are followed immediately by Save the giraffes and an animal conservation website.

Sarah blinks quickly. She’s getting splotchy in the cheeks again, and her chin quivers. But she still turns in her seat to face me.

And then takes me completely by surprise when she cups my cheeks and presses a hard smacker right to my lips.

My body lights up like a match in the desert, flaring to life under her touch, and I know I need to let her go, to not take this any farther, that it’s not smart or even wise—she’s probably packing that taser—but I can’t help myself.

Her lips are so soft, her fingers brushing the shells of my ears, her breath sweet, her grip firm, and I haven’t kissed a woman in months.

Not like this.

And I don’t know why it’s different. Or maybe I do, but I like being in denial.

I angle my lips to capture hers, one arm tightening around her, the other hand resting on her thigh, and— And no go.

She leaps back like I hit her with a branding iron. “Thank you,” she sputters. “For—for Persephone. And the giraffes. Have you ever thrown out the first pitch at a game? Both my parents did, that time we went. My dad made my mom go first so he could bumble his own pitch if she didn’t get hers close to home plate.”