“Run,” Shelby says, pushing against my chest to snap me out of my daze. We take off hand in hand. As we run, Shelby’s eyes light up, despite the yearning that I know has her weak at the knees, and despite nearly getting caught—or maybe because of it.
I hear the guard’s pounding footsteps growing louder. He came all the way from the outfield, but he’s right behind us now. I know guys who would kill for hustle like that. Shelby’s laughing as she runs, her bare toes skimming the dewy grass. Her amusement is infectious and I laugh too as we dart out of sight. We hit the asphalt of the parking lot and Shelby’s first to the car, still caught up in a fit of giggles. I unlock the door and she flings herself into the passenger seat.
The engine starts in complete silence and the security guard doesn’t bother chasing us out of the lot. The poor guy better be getting a decent pay for working on New Year’s.
“I can’t believe we almost got caught.”
“Where’d your shoes go?” I ask, looking at her dirty feet. Between running toward first and our make-out session, her feet are caked in dirt. Not that I mind. I love seeing her hot and bothered. Judging by her smile, she doesn’t seem to care either.
“Must have left them at the field.”
“I’ll get you some new ones.”
“Now that’s a way to a woman’s heart.” She leans over the seat coming within inches of me, her eyes daring me to forget the road. I give her a knowing smile. She can tease all she wants, but there will be a price for that when I spread her out on a bed. “So are you going to leave a girl hanging?”
“Not on your life, slugger.”
“What hotel are you staying at?” she asks.
“I’m actually staying with a friend.” I cringe as I say it. Everything about this night seems to be conspiring toward a cockblock.
She doesn’t miss a beat. “Turn here,” she says, pointing to the next intersection. “We’ll go to my place.”
Her apartment is slick and modern. Cool grays with the occasional pop of white. It’s a loft, but it’s not cramped like most: everything flows together. Her kitchen opens up into her living area with a big couch and an impressive TV. It’s an older building and most of the original brickwork’s been left exposed.
She freezes when she unlocks the door, a jolt of adrenaline visibly running through her. I frown down at the startled expression that flickers across her face. But before I can move to make her forget whatever is worrying her, she recovers and sweeps into the living area.
“You want something to drink?” she asks quickly.
“Sure.”
Shelby flashes me a smile and crosses the room, lingering for a second at a small bookshelf before she disappears into the kitchen. I step farther into the living room and see that she had hidden her photos by turning the frames so they rested against the wood. That explains the fear from earlier. Probably photos of some ex she doesn’t want me to see. Fine by me. At this point, Shelby can do whatever she wants as long as I can get her on that bed as soon as possible.
I turn to examine the rest of the loft. An entire corner has been given over to a string of medals and something that looks like a flip calendar. I lean in to get a closer look and realize that the calendar is actually a collection of running bibs, the numbers printed boldly in black ink. The medals must be from races, I realize, as I read city names and distances stamped across them. There’s a great photo of Shelby, hot and sweaty after a run, but grinning like a fool. It has to be a few years old. She still looks like she’s in her late teens.
“That was my first marathon,” she says, walking over with a glass of whiskey. “My dad thought it would be funny to stick a camera in my face after I just finished.”
“How many have you run?”
“I do a couple a year,” she says with a shrug. “Excuse me for a minute while I go clean these feet,” she says, showing me her sexy feet still dirty from the field.
When she comes back, she’s pulled out her ponytail and her dark hair falls over her shoulders to the middle of her back. She’s still got my Yankee jacket on, and I’m partially surprised she hasn’t burned it out of spite. As satisfying as it is to see her decked out in my gear, I’d do anything to get her out of it.
She leads me to the sofa and I take a seat. She curls up next to me, far enough that we’re not touching, but close enough that it wouldn’t take much. She brings her feet up under her and rests her head on her hand, studying me. Not like the girls at the bar, greedily taking in the ball player, but like she’s searching for something else.
“So.” Shelby takes a swig of her whiskey. “Why baseball?” She needles me with her foot and I grab it before she can pull it away.
“Because I like to play a fake sport.” I run a finger lazily up and down her calf, loving the way she trembles at my touch. “Why football?” I ask. “Wait, no, let me guess—it’s a real sport with plenty of eye candy?”
“You think you’re cute, don’t you?” she asks.
“Absolutely not. I’m hot as hell.”