She fucking likes me but has no idea what to do with her feelings. She’s not repulsed by me. Honestly, if she was, she wouldn’t be sharing her bed with me right now. She would have asked me to leave an hour ago. But she didn’t. Instead, she kept talking, we kept watching Friends, and now she’s sitting a foot away from me, slowly but surely growing more comfortable with the possibility of opening up the door to her attraction.
Holy fuck, I think Milly Potter, baseball queen, and sexy-as-shit girl likes me.
The realization spreads a giant smile across my face that I don’t bother hiding.
She likes me.
She really fucking likes me, and now there’s only one thing left to do: make her admit it.
“It’s hard—”
“Don’t worry about it, Mills.” I hop off her bed, put my shoes back on, and grab my backpack. I need to make an action plan to win this girl over and make it impossible for her to run away from me again . . . or shove an unexpected cookie in my mouth.
“Carson.” She gets off her bed as well and takes one step forward, but doesn’t move any closer than that.
“I’ll talk to you later, okay?” I give her a small wave and grip her doorknob just as she clears her throat.
“I’m sorry,” she says quickly. “I’m . . . I’m sorry I’m so awkward.”
Fuck.
The last thing I want her doing is apologizing, but if I walk over there, if I close the distance between us, there’s no telling what I’ll do, how my body will react. Just like I keep telling myself, I need to go slow, draw out her affection one moment at a time, and even though this is tough on me—not going over there to cradle her in my arms—I need to make this first move perfect.
“No need to apologize, Milly,” I say over my shoulder. “We’re good. Talk to you later.”
I quickly leave her and start thinking. I’m going to find my inner Knox and woo a girl. If he can do it, so can I. Milly Potter is going to admit she likes me, whether she likes it or not.
Chapter Fifty-One
MILLY
Milly: Carson knows you’re my brother.
Cory: You told him?
Milly: He came to my dorm room and saw all my pictures of you and me, so I didn’t have a choice.
Cory: Hold up, what was he doing in your dorm room?
Milly: It’s a long story, but what it comes down to is I’m awkward and make situations really uncomfortable. He probably felt bad for me and followed me back to my room to make sure I was okay. We hung out for a bit.
Cory: Did you kiss?
Milly: Why do you act like a teenage girl sometimes?
Cory: Someone has to be a step-in sister for you on occasion. Answer the question.
Milly: No. We didn’t, and he wouldn’t want to kiss me anyway. He doesn’t see me like that, trust me.
Cory: Then there is something wrong with him. How did he take the news of your famous and extremely attractive brother?
Milly: Shocked, to say the least. And then . . . ugh, and then he called me out.
Cory: What do you mean?
Milly: For being distant. For not letting him in.
Cory: Did you tell him why?
Milly: I didn’t get a chance. He got up and left. I tried apologizing, telling him I was sorry for being awkward. He said everything was cool. But I haven’t talked to him in three days, and now I’m worried. I don’t really know what I want from him, not that he would want anything more than friendship. But I don’t want to lose what we have.
Cory: Aw, Mills. Don’t ever apologize for being you. You hear me? If he doesn’t like you for who you are, then fuck him. When he makes the big leagues, I’ll be sure to have my pitchers catch him between the shoulder blades.
Milly: You’re the best, but I don’t think he deserves that. Honestly, I don’t blame him. I’ve been really awkward, and I know it’s because I have no self-control around him. I like him, Cory, and that’s what makes things really problematic, because he doesn’t feel the same way.
Cory: How do you know?
Milly: Because he treats me like all my friends . . . like a guy.
Because the minute he knew who I was, he left. Even with the “status” of being the Potter sister, he still wasn’t interested in me. I sigh and put my phone down to glance at the cloudy sky. Doom and gloom. That’s what it feels like. As if the sky can read my mood and is following me around, the last three days, it’s been cloudy and gross, deepening the hole of depression I’ve tossed myself into.
I keep replaying the other night over and over in my head. Carson Stone came to my room. He not only pursued me after I fled upset, wanting to know the reason for my reaction, but he chose to come to my room. I have no clue why, but I smile every time I think of Carson Stone lying on my bed. My. Bed. And then, of course, my blundering self-consciousness arrived. I couldn’t read him, but everything I did was wrong, every chance I had to possibly get closer to him, I didn’t take. I shied away, pushed him away, practically kicked him out of my room. Awesome work, Potter. You just lost a friend. I haven’t told Shane and Jerry, and it’s been hard to hide my despondency. They know me very well, but so far, they haven’t bombarded me with questions. Thank God.
And now, of course, Carson’s not talking to me. Well, not like he used to. The team went to Iowa this weekend to face Iowa State, a tough team. Saturday morning, I texted him good luck and to remember to keep his knuckles in line, another slight tweak we made this past week, and all I got was a curt thanks.
It’s Sunday night and I haven’t heard anything from him. I kept my eyes on the play-by-play on the Brentwood website when I wasn’t coaching my little guys. Carson was amazing, going two for four each game with four RBIs and not one strikeout. He made solid contact every time, at least from what I could tell.
I expected him to text me all about it like he did the weekend before, but it’s been radio silence.
My phone buzzes, but I’m too tired to even think about answering a text from Cory, so I leave it on the arm of the chair I’m resting in and stare at the lake. Lakeview dining hall has a beautiful balcony overlooking Lake Michigan, and if you’re lucky enough to score a chair outside, you squat there until you absolutely need to leave.
I’m not at that point just yet. I brought my books with me to study but my head isn’t quite in it.
The door to the balcony opens and I glance over at it quickly before turning back to the lake. When my brain finally catches up with my eyes, I realize Carson just stepped out on the balcony and is handing out high-fives.
I’m curled up on my chair, wearing a large Brentwood baseball sweatshirt but am hidden under my hood. At least I thought I was, until Carson spots me, smiles, and walks in my direction. I don’t even bother sitting up. I stay curled and keep my eyes fixed on the lake in front of me. That’s until Carson sits on the little coffee table blocking my view.
“Hey Mills.” He greets me with a smile.
Emotions clogs my throat, and I instantly hate that this man can make me feel more than any other person. I’m never like this, an emotional nutcase, but for some reason, just a small smile from him evokes such strong emotions.
I rest my chin on my propped-up hand and say, “Hey, Carson.”