“Seriously?”
“Yeah. She makes me happy. When life’s shit, and even when it’s not, she gives me more . . . perspective I guess. Like she helps me shift my focus off myself. And fuck is she gorgeous.” I’ve never heard Holt open up like this, so his honesty is welcome. Surprising, but welcome. “I can understand why Coach worries we’ll be distracted, but what he doesn’t understand is that some of us need that escape. We eat and breathe baseball. Sometimes we need to shut off that part of our brain and enjoy something other than the sport we were born to play.” He shrugs, as if what he said wasn’t just some heavy shit. “Em makes you happy, so don’t fuck with that.”
“I don’t want to.”
“Then don’t.” Holt picks up his phone again. “You know what’s best for you, man. If that’s Em, go for it.”
“I will,” I answer with determination. Coach isn’t right on this one. Carson didn’t shut up about Em to my mom, so I know he thinks she’s cool. And now Holt. Baseball’s my future, but I’m with Holt on this one. I want the girl, the one who’s already my place of retreat. God, she certainly puts me in my place, and if that isn’t a broader perspective, what is? No. Emory Ealson is staying.
I pick up my phone as well and start searching places to take my girl on a date. I also understand where Coach is coming from, but I’ve always been able to compartmentalize on the field. Being with Emory isn’t going to change that.
Chapter Twenty
EMORY
Knox: What’s your schedule?
Emory: Friday, Saturday, and Sunday I have off . . . all perfect date nights.
Knox: Do I hear a sense of excitement in your . . . typing?
Emory: Maybe.
Knox: That’s cute, babe.
Emory: What did you expect, for me to be dragging my feet?
Knox: Yes, I love forcing my women to go out with me.
Emory: How many women?
Knox: Ten a month. I can’t handle any more than that. You’re number nine.
Emory: Only ten, pish, child’s play. Try fifteen. Ever wonder why I don’t see you as much, it’s because you’re number twelve on my list.
Knox: If I didn’t know we were casually exclusive switching to seriously exclusive, I’d be worried. Those skirts attract men like flies to shit.
Emory: Flies to shit? How pleasant.
Knox: Texas, babe. I grew up with lots of horse shit and flies.
Emory: What a beautiful childhood you must have had.
Knox: Nothing beats scooping shit into wheelbarrows for cash.
Emory: I bet you looked hot doing it.
Knox: A skinny twelve-year-old me. Super hot.
Emory: Eh, no thank you. I only like you because of your muscles.
Knox: My dick will eclipse that thought once you get to know him.
Emory: Which will be never at this rate.
Knox: Mentally we’ve fucked at least two hundred times by now in my head.
Emory: Yeah? Tell me some of the things we’ve done.
Knox: Nice try, Satan’s mistress. Fuck that. I’m not getting hard over text messages. No fucking thank you.
Emory: It will be fun, come on.
Knox: Nope. Not happening. I have a date to plan.
Emory: You’re not like the average guy. Anyone else would have jumped on the invitation to sext with me.
Knox: I’m not average, babe. In any way. Plan to be wooed Friday night, think you can handle it?
Emory: Easy. I’m just wondering if you’ll be able to handle the dress I’m planning to wear.
Knox: Bring it, Ealson.
Emory: Get ready to take a trip to Boner Town.
Knox: Erection City, here I come, I just booked a one-way trip.
“Oh my God, he’s going to die.”
I glance in the mirror, twirling so I can look at my backside. “You think so? The dress isn’t too much?”
“Not at all,” Dottie says, sitting on my bed. “And your hair, the honey highlights you added are gorgeous. They highlight your eyes.”
I sift my fingers through the soft waves. I took a chance and got my hair done today, adding some honey coloring and more layers. It’s not much of a change, just enough to make an impact. I spent the afternoon after classes primping for my date. I shaved all over, lotioned every last inch of my body with my best bergamot lotions, spent at least an hour on my makeup, and thankfully my hairdresser did my hair.
And the dress? Yellow with a razorback and deep V in the front. The fabric clings to every piece of my body and the hem hits at mid-thigh. I paired the dress with white heels and a white peacoat. It is winter, after all.
Knock. Knock.
“Ah, he’s here,” Lindsay screams while running in place.
“Settle down.” I laugh. “We’ve seen him before.”
“But this is different. You guys are taking things to the next level. What if he proposes tonight?”
“Oh my God.” I roll my eyes. “We hardly see each other, but he’s proposing? Get your shit together, Lindsay.”
She tamps down her excitement. “Sorry, I got a little overzealous there. Want me to get the door?”
“Sure. I’m going to apply my lipstick one more time.” I chose a subtle pink, but it gives my lips one solid color.
Lindsay takes off toward the door while I reapply and then fluff my hair. Dottie comes up next to me and says, “You look perfect, Emory. Enjoy tonight and let down your shield. He’s a good guy, better than Neil ever was.” She gives me a side hug and then takes off toward the common room where Lindsay is gushing over Knox.
“Oh my God, could that shirt be any tighter. Look at your biceps.” His deep laugh floats into my room.
“I shrunk it on purpose. Did it do the trick?” I can imagine him flexing his biceps for Lindsay.
“Oh yes, is that a six-pack or an eight-pack? Can I feel?”
I take that moment to step out of my bedroom. “There will be no feeling of Knox’s abs.”
Knox spins around and the look on his face when he sees me is entirely too satisfying and something I’ll remember for a very long time. His eyes peruse my body slowly as his hand drags over his mouth.
“Holy . . . shit,” he says under his breath, taking a step forward. “Babe, you look . . . fuck, you look good.”
“Thank you.” He snags his hand around my waist and pulls me in close. He sifts his fingers through my hair, examining my new locks.
“This is sexy. I liked your hair before, but I like this even more.” He glances down. “And your tits, fuck you’re going to kill me with those things. Our bet was only about sex, right? I can suck on these tonight?”
Dottie snorts from behind.
“It’s any kind of sex acts.” I pat his cheek and then slide my hands over his black tight-fitting button-up shirt. Lindsay was right; you can see every curve of his strength through this fabric. His biceps are bulging, threatening to tear through the material. His pecs test the sturdiness of the buttons, and the taper of the shirt clings to his narrow hips, where he’s tucked the hem into a pair of dark-wash jeans with a belt that sits low. Super sexy. “You look really good.” I want him to know I just don’t bust his balls, but I can appreciate everything about him. Why the hell did we make this bet? I want to climb him.