Once. Firm. Confident.
I open the door and forget how to breathe.
Amelia stands there like she walked straight out of a fantasy I should not be having. Tight jeans that hug her just right. A soft sweater slipping off one shoulder like it has a mind of its own. Her hair is down, framing her face, and her makeup making her blue eyes impossible to look away from.
“Damn, Doc,” I say before I can stop myself. “You look gorgeous.”
She blushes, and that alone nearly kills me.
“Hi,” she murmurs, stepping inside.
She pauses just past the threshold, actually looking at my place, and something in my chest tightens when her eyes widen.
“Wow,” she says. “Your place is amazing.”
I didn’t expect that. Didn’t expect how much I’d care that she’s impressed.
Dark hardwood floors stretch beneath us, the gray walls clean but warm. The deep charcoal couch sits just off to the side, the one that’s seen more late nights and postgame crashes than I’ll ever admit. Framed photos line one wall. Team shots, stadium lights frozen in time, and one picture I never took down. Me and my dad at a little league field. Dirt on my knees. A crooked grin on my face.
The kitchen is open, stainless steel and concrete counters, low lights instead of anything harsh. It’s calm. Grounded.
Like I wanted her to see this version of me.
“Sit,” I say, gesturing to the island. “I’ll grab wine.”
She slides onto one of the stools as I pour, the sound of liquid hitting glass louder than it should be.
“I ordered pizza,” I add, handing her a glass. “Hope that’s okay. I don’t get to cook as much as I’d like during the season.”
She takes a sip and smiles. “So you cook?”
I lean against the island, shrugging. “Had to feed myself growing up. Then I realized cooking is actually something I enjoy.”
“Well,” she says, laughing softly, “I’m a terrible cook, so I’ll happily leave that to you.”
We talk food. Our favorite meals, worst disasters, late-night cravings. Easy. Natural. Too easy.
Without thinking, I move around the island until I’m standing right beside her. Close enough that I can smell her perfume. Warm. Clean. Tempting.
“You surprised me,” I say. “Showing up to the game tonight.”
“I wanted to see you pitch.”
The way she says it, so quiet and honest, hits hard.
“You didn’t tell me.”
“I didn’t want to distract you.”
Too late.
“What if Kamden saw you?”
She lifts one shoulder. “I would’ve said I was there for him.”
Damn.
I don’t know why her having a cover story turns me on this much, but it does.
