I crunch on a perfectly salted fry, working through it in my mind.
The last few weeks with Trevor have felt…different.
Not thathe’schanged.
Trevor has always been an amazing person. For example, most people wouldn’t choose to adopt a cat in medical recovery. And there was the time I overheard a telephone conversation with the Waves’ philanthropy manager, inquiring how he can do more to give back. And who can forget when he went on an emergency tampon run for me, casually stating that half of the population has a menstrual cycle, so it’s no big deal for him to be photographed standing in line at CVS with a box of feminine products.
The insignificant daily details are still the same too. He’s not much of a morning person but forces himself to go through the motions. He mindlessly blows oversized, pink bubblegumbubbles while he’s doing his daily stretches. He hums while he does the dishes. He coats anything fried in mustard.
I’ve always liked Trevor. I jokingly called him my big brother because he makes me feel safe and comfortable. But ever since the incident at the lighthouse, I’ve been…noticing things. Like how his eyes soften when I’m speaking, or how immaculately sculpted his forearms are, or how there’s this husky undertone to his laugh.
The problem is that myvery logicalpoint from this morning still stands. The last thing I need, after untangling the emotional brain-melt of my last relationship, is a crush on my roommate, even if Trevor has a heart of gold, loves cats as much as I do, and is built like a Renaissance statue.
Also, I’m well aware of my…average attractiveness. I have a plucky spirit and am great at numbers and keeping green things alive, but I’ve seen the kinds of women players usually date—supermodels, other athletes, and movie stars. Not accountants from small towns. It was mind-boggling foroneMLB player to want to date me, so the probability oftwodoing so…
It’s not even worth calculating.
But no matter how much I want to put the issue aside like a soiled napkin, I can’t. My parents still like to joke about how I spent hours on my homework as a kid because I needed each mathematical expression to be true. I’d work each problem backward until I confirmed I was correct. Often, they’d go tosleep, and my desk lamp would spill light into the hallway because of my need to check my math.
What if there was a way to do that now?
The world tilts sideways as a wild thought crawls through my mind. My breathing kicks up, and for the split second before I decide to take action, I feel more reckless than when I jumped atop the dugout all those weeks ago.
Setting down my Coke, I step forward—just as Trevor swallows a mouthful of fried pickles.
“You’ve got a little something…” I let my words trail off as my hand lifts to wipe fictitious mustard from Trevor’s cupid’s bow.
He freezes, mouth half-open as if to ask a question, before my thumb slides slowly over the scar on his top lip.
Not raised.That’s the thought that pops into my mind as Trevor’s hazel irises practically vanish at my touch. I hesitate for a single slamming heartbeat before finishing my math-check by sliding my thumb between my lips with an approving hum and a coy smile.
If I thought my jump to the top of the dugout had been an out-of-body experience, it’s nothing compared to this. I’ve never in my life been capable of even the most pedestrian flirting, but suddenly, I’m a femme fatale. Maybe those body-snatching alien babies are still in play.
Trevor’s ragged breath washes over my skin as he crowds closer, almost on instinct, like he’s helpless not to. One hand takes a firm grip of my hip as his other slides under my hair. Myhand drops from my mouth to rest over his thundering heart. A pause hangs between us as his hungry gaze sweeps my face.
The answer to the question of whether Trevor is attracted to me?
A resounding yes.
Did I hallucinate the almost-kiss two weeks ago?
No, I did not.
Will Trevor demolish the handful of inches between us?
Ifreakinghope so.
Caution tuts in the corners of my mind. Kissing my roommate in a sports bar has the potential for very messy consequences. But apparently, my body is in control now, because I rise on my tiptoes to close the distance. Our noses brush, and Trevor’s gorgeous lashes fall closed just as a loud, slurred voice interrupts.
“Hey, don’t I know you?”
Chapter 16
Trevor
Iam going tomurderwhoever is speaking. It’s that simple. That drunken fan is a dead man. I’m far more patient than most players about signing autographs or being asked for selfies, but sometimes a man just wants to live his life, you know? And when your wildest dream is about to come true…when the woman you’ve been lost over finally looks at you like she’s seeing you the same way before tilting her gorgeous face toward yours for a kiss? That is theworst possible momentto be recognized in public.
My hand keeps a firm grip of Kenzie’s hip as I look toward the sound of the voice. The faster I can dismiss this bozo, the better.
