No shit, butterfly.
My knee bounces up and down. I peer at the door. Drum my fingers on the table.
I pop in my earbuds, after all, and fiddle around with my book, but I can’t tell if the hero is rappelling into a museum or down a cliff, so I shut it off.
The door swings open at six o’clock on the dot.
My pulse spikes.
I stuff my earbuds into my pocket and watch Declan Steele talk to the hostess. Give her my name. Tell her he’s here to see me.
She gestures to the back of the tapas bar. His gaze swings to me, and I grin instantly.
My smile has a mind of its own with him.
The rest melts away. He’s all I see, striding toward me, looking more handsome than he did the day we met. His beard is neat and trim, like when I saw him after the Rookie of the Year award—the perfect amount of hair that I want to feel against my face and my thighs. He knows I like it, and I kind of hope he’s wearing it that way for me.
Dark jeans hug his legs, and a hunter green Henley snuggles his chest and big arms. Hell, that shirt is an unfair advantage. That man doesn’t need any muscle-enhancing clothes on that strong body.
The body I want to feel against me.
Those dark eyes are locked on me the whole time as he crosses the bar, as if I’m the target in his crosshairs. He stares at me like he wants to take me apart.
With his tongue.
Yes, please.
When he reaches the table, I’m not sure if I should stand and hug him, or just let him take a seat like I would Crosby, or Chance, or Sullivan.
But since he’s none of those guys, I go with my gut.
Seems to be the day for that.
I slide out, stand, and give him a one-armed hug like we did at the agency party.
“Hey there,” he says, low and smoky, in a voice that sends a red-hot shiver all over.
No, make that white-hot as his nose brushes subtly against my neck—so subtle no one else can see, but I can feel it—and he draws a quick hit of me.
“Mmm.” That’s all he says. But it’s enough to fry all my circuits.
I extricate myself from the hug before it turns into an amateur porn submission. I slide back into the booth, and he enters from the other side. But it’s a half circle, so we wind up near each other.
Note to self: don’t move any closer or you’ll be rubbing up against him.
“How’s it going?” I ask, a little awkwardly. I feel like I haven’t been on a date in five years.
Because I haven’t.
The corner of his lips quirks up. “Excellent.” He takes a beat, looking at me like I’m his dinner. “Now that I’m here.”
I dip my face, trying to hide an even bigger smile as my stomach flips. “Good.” Then I draw a deep breath and raise my face, unsure what to say or how to start. My brain is vacant right now, so I try desperately to latch onto a fact, a detail. I circle back to last night. “So, you weren’t staying around originally?”
He shakes his head. “I was supposed to leave this afternoon.”
That’s all I need to reactivate my brain. My mind is no longer empty. It’s full of fantastic thoughts. I know exactly how to talk to him—the way we did when we were first workout partners. With flirt. “Ohhhh. What happened to make you change your mind?” I ask, like it’s a simple curiosity.
Declan gives a casual shrug. “I got an offer I couldn’t refuse.”
“That so?”
“Much too hard to resist.”
“Must have been some kind of offer.”
“I’d have been a fool to get on a flight,” he says, and it’s like old times on the high school track, at the golf course or the gym.
“And you’re no fool,” I say, grinning stupidly now.
“Trying not to be.”
“So, when do you leave now?”
“Tomorrow around three.”
I nod a few times, then stroke my chin. “That’s a whole evening, night, and morning away.”
He lifts one eyebrow, his eyes glinting. “So much time,” he says, all rumbly and sexy, then he’s even sexier when he licks his lips.
Those lips.
I want to taste them. Feel them. Know them again.
“And so much to do in that time,” Declan adds, and my chest heats to furnace levels. It’s possible my hair might be on fire. Grab the fire extinguishers. I’m going to need them all night long because I’m sure—beyond a shadow of a doubt—that we’ll be fucking tonight.
And I can’t wait.
But I also intend to enjoy every second of the not fucking right now.
The next hour or so at this tapas bar is about to go down as the best foreplay in my entire life.
The trouble is the shoes clicking our way across the tiled floor. Out of the corner of my eye, the waitress comes into view, mere feet away.
When the petite brunette reaches our table, she shoots us a wide smile. “Hello! Can I interest you gentlemen in some tapas? Some drinks? We have terrific cocktails, including our signature spicy margarita with a hint of jalapeño. They’re so delish,” she says, then drops her voice to a playful whisper. “They just taste great on your lips.”
I laugh lightly. “How can I resist then? Any chance you can make me a virgin spicy margarita?”
“Of course I can.” She turns to Declan. “And for you?”
“I’ll have the same.”
“Anything to eat?” She arches a brow and starts rattling off some appetizers that sound incredible, but I’m not taking any chances with food tonight. I shake my head and my date does the same.
Yup.
He’s my date. It feels like our first one.
Warmth flows through my veins, like a delicious buzzing across my skin.
I love every second of being here with him. No idea where we’re going or how we’re going to navigate the road, but at the moment, I don’t care. I’m living in the here and the now, and I’m loving it.
When she leaves, his eyes stray to my hands on the table.
A laugh bursts from his chest and he gestures dramatically to my left hand. “Are you fucking kidding me? Did you have to wear that tonight?”
I snicker as I scratch my jaw. “What? Is the light from my World Series ring in your eyes?”
“Yes. Yes, it is.”
“Want a closer look? Maybe take a picture?”
“Oh yes. That’s exactly what I want.”
“Is it blinding you? The shine from all the diamonds?” I waggle my fingers.
“Yeah, because they look like rhinestones,” he scoffs.
I crack up, then beckon him closer. “Secret time. They are.”
“Who the fuck makes World Series rings with rhinestones?”
“They’re just temporary. The owner was so stoked about the win, he made these for us in November so we’d all have temporary rings. The real ones are being made by Tiffany’s with four-carat diamonds or something and we’ll get them in a pre-game ceremony on Opening Day at home.”
“Awww. I’m so sorry you don’t have a real one to wear yet,” he says, mocking me.
“Do you want to wear it? Like it’s my letterman jacket. You can. Just for tonight,” I tease. “But you gotta give it back in the morning.”
He shakes his head, grinning. “Sure, wise ass. And then I’ll make you kiss the ring.”