“Fuck you. I didn’t stop because I'm not confident.”
Oh no, we're bickering again. Feels like a flashback to the time Piper and Hudson had us over for dinner and they had to change the seating arrangements between salad and steak courses to ensure Spencer and I had distance between us.
Spencer smiles to himself and stands up to grab his glass of champagne.
Damn. Looks like he nearly finished the bottle.
He takes a drink then offers me the glass that I stupidly accept, as if I need to replenish my liquid intake.
“You seem a little edgy. Is it me?” he pretends to be concerned.
I swear I snarl at him. “Like, I totally understand why you are single and ready to mingle. It’s impossible to enjoy even a millisecond with you.”
“Mmm, I care to disagree. I’m just currently stuck in the proximity of an uptight woman.”
I instantly act and splash the glass of champagne in his face. “I’m anything but.”
When his face stills and his tongue darts out to taste the alcohol on the corner of his mouth, I realize my error. My jaw drops open, and I can’t believe I just did that.
He uses the back of his hand to wipe away a few drops from his cheek as his eyes darken before he gives me a pointed look. “What the hell.”
My shock fades into a smile that wants to spread.
He steps closer, and I don’t move.
“Unpredictable. I’m unpredictable,” I declare because inside I’m acting this way for reasons that have nothing to do with Spencer, but I don’t want him to know what’s going on in my mind.
But before I can process the elation I feel that I may just be everything my former fiancé thought I wasn’t, I feel something gooey hit my cheek.
I blink and realize that Spencer reached over and grabbed cake with two fingers before he smothered it on my face.
He's standing far too close to me with a satisfied look. “Oops.”
I touch the sticky icing with my palm, only to quickly shove his hand away, but he is quick to circle his fingers around my wrists. “Don’t start something you can’t finish,” he warns.
“I’m very capable of finishing, thank you very much,” I snipe back.
His look turns to a mix of warning and interest. “I bet,” he rasps.
“Please do.”
I break my wrists free from his impressive grip that is equal parts gentle yet proof of his career as a pitcher.
But the moment I’m free, his arm circles around my middle, and my response is to grip his shirt with my fingers. I feel like something is combusting inside of me, a form of hysteria that has me drawn to his eyes, then darting my vision down to his mouth before snapping my attention back to his piercing gaze.
And I’m not sure who in this moment is more eager to take a chance on a wager.
2
SPENCER
A FEW MONTHS LATER
Ipeer up from my phone as I approach the restaurant. I’ve heard teammates rave about it, but that's not why I'm here. It’s the end of the baseball season, or rather our batter struck out at a key moment running up to the World Series, so our team is out early, and hopefully, the batter is getting traded for next season.
I was finishing up some meetings with my agent and publicist when I got the message that added another complication to my life.
I should be in my car with music on full blast while I drive back to Lake Spark. Instead, I’m walking down a sidewalk in downtown Chicago with a few people noticing me, but I have no intention to smile and sign autographs. It’s not because I’m an ass, it’s because I’m on a mission. Okay, I’m not a fan of people either.
