“You going to introduce us to your girlfriend?” the shorter one with a mustache asks. While normally that’s not my thing, it somehow works for him. Between the facial hair and his dark,curly mullet you just know this is a guy who knows how to have a good time.
“Oh, God!” I loudly pout as I cover my face. “He told you about that?”
Well, there goes any chance I had at being taken seriously.
“Kind of. We were there last night when you turned him down. I have to say, I’m impressed, Baby Clemmins. Nobody turns this guy down,” the moustached man says, wrapping one arm around Fletcher’s shoulders and patting his chest with the other.
“Oh, is that so?” I ask, my lips slowly curving upward.
I’m not surprised by this revelation. He’s obviously good-looking and knows just what to say to win you over. I even had to wonder once or twice if I’d made a mistake by not giving in.
“Oh, he’s exaggerating,” Fletcher says, brushing mustache away from him.
“No, no he’s not,” the other player cuts in, who is somehow even taller than Fletcher. While Fletch has a lean, yet still muscular build, this guy is very much on the brawnier side, towering over Fletcher by an extra inch or two. “This guy pulls in more tail than anyone else on this team. He’s a fan favorite for a reason.”
My smile widens, as the truth fully settles in. Yep, I definitely made the right choice last night. While I may not have known he was a baseball player, the last thing I want is to share a type with the resident cleat chasers.
“Interesting,” I nod, and now it’s my turn to flash a smug grin.
“Thanks for that, man,” Fletch grumbles as he crosses his arms.
I refuse to acknowledge the way his biceps flex, or how his muscles look as they push against the sleeve of his work-out jersey. Absolutely nothing to see here.
“Aw, come on, Hudson. He’s not that bad," Mustache suggests, attempting to back up his teammate.
I tilt my head to the side, my trust not going very far with any of them.
“Okay, fine,” Mustache surrenders. “He’s a bit of a flirt, and if I had a sister, he probably wouldn’t be my top pick for her, but I do mean it when I say he’s actually a really decent guy.”
“A decent guy, but not one you’d let date your sister?” I ask, repeating his own words back to him. “Not that it matters either way. I don’t date coworkers.”
“Well, it’s not like we’re real coworkers,” Fletcher protests, unfolding his arms and ruining the view I totally hadn’t been staring at.
“Sorry, Mason, or Fletcher… or whatever your name is. But nothing is ever going to happen between us. So how about you do what our boss suggested and give me the tour?”
“You’re right,” he agrees a bit too eagerly. “Let’s start the tour. I’m ready to ditch these two assholes anyway.”
It’d be easy to assume he’s actually annoyed with his teammates, but given all their smiles, it’s clear there’s zero love lost between any of these men.
“It was nice meeting you. I’m Easten by the way,” the moustached man says, as I do my best to store that away for later. “I play center field for the Honky Tonks.”
“And I’m Hudson” the bigger one offers. “I’m the catcher for the Honky Tonks as well.”
“Well, it was good to meet you both and I appreciate the warnings.” I say, sneaking a glance toward Fletcher. “And I really look forward to working with you both,” I finish before sending them off with a few waves and promising to get to know them better.
Ready to get this tour over with, I take a few steps.
“You know they were just messing with you, right?” Fletcher quickens his pace and catches up before leading us toward the Honky Tonk dugout. “And just so you don’t think I was lying toyou, my name really is Mason. My last name is Fletcher, which is what most people call me. That, or Fletch.”
“Your name is the last thing I’m worried about right now.” I stop and grab his arm before I can think better of it. He glances down at where we’re touching, a smirk tugging at his lips as I immediately drop it. “This job is what matters to me,” I continue, attempting to keep my voice steady. “And more importantly, this team is my dad’s entire world right now. I’m not going to screw it up or complicate things by dating one of his players. You understand that, right?” My eyes search his, practically begging for him to take this seriously.
“I understand,” he parrots, giving a nod so serious I almost believe it’s genuine. The relief is short-lived as a sheepish grin breaks across his face. “But if you ever change your mind, I’m here and willing. Fake boyfriend... real boyfriend... whatever you need, I’m your guy.”
Ugh! What is with this whole him being ‘my guy.’ He is not, nor will he ever be, ‘my guy.’
I scoff and roll my eyes,. Why do I even bother? Shaking my head, I spin on my heel and march toward the dugout on my own.
“Believe me, I won’t,” I call over my shoulder, meaning every word of it. He can try all he wants, but I’m not falling for Mr. Honky Tonk Casanova’s charms. It’ll take a hell of a lot more than a few flirty jabs and pretty-boy smirks to make me swoon and fall under his spell.
