“He is not my boy,” I complain.
“Sure he’s not.” Roberto winks.
“He’s not,” I repeat, not sure if it’s for Roberto’s sake or mine.
“Me thinks the lady doth protest too much,” Will teases, making Roberto chuckle.
“Goodnight, you two,” I grouse. With a wave, I make a hasty escape to the elevator up to my apartment.
After dinner, I take a hot shower and pull on a pair of night shorts, my sleep bralette—because when you’re blessed in the chest area, sleeping without one means getting a nipple caught under your arm when you roll over—and my San Francisco Bay University T-shirt. I wrap my wet hair into a bun and return to the kitchen to pour a glass of white wine, then make myself comfortable on the couch.
I turn on the TV and scroll to my favorite streaming app, but the banner promoting tonight’s Evaders game makes me pause. I know I shouldn’t, but my fingers have a mind of their own and click on the baseball game.
Of course, the first thing I see is Nico’s face filling the screen. Even through the TV, his steely-gray eyes draw me in and put me under their spell.
I listen to the commentators discuss how Nico led the league in home runs last season and is leading this season. The picture of his face switches to a display of his batting average and stats, which areall impressively high. Two of the sportscasters believe he’s on the road to being in the baseball hall of fame, and I agree.
Nico isn’t just good; he’s phenomenal.
The view switches again to a live feed of Nico on deck. He takes a couple of practice swings before he steps into the batter’s box.
Gone is the cocky smirk I’m so used to seeing on his face. It’s been replaced with an intimidating sense of assuredness and strength. Don’t get me wrong, he still has an arrogant aura about him, but this look is…different. It’s more confident, serious, like his sole focus is the ball in the pitcher’s hand. Nothing else.
Nico takes his stance, and I lean towards the TV, taking it all in. Him all in.
The effect of his tanned skin and tattoos makes him appear as if he’s a dark, foreboding villain in someone’s story. He might be, but that doesn’t make him any less hot.
I can’t help picturing the rippling muscles that lie beneath that blue and white jersey, and I bite back a moan. My eyes dip to Nico’s rear end and, dammit, he makes those tight-as-heck baseball pants look good. They mold perfectly to his thick thighs and firm, round butt.
The pitcher winds up, and blood pounds in my ears. The ball is imperceptible as it flies towards Nico. He swings, and the ball sails into the bleachers with ease.
“Whoa.” It comes out of me in a whoosh, not having realized I was holding my breath as I watched.
The camera shows a replay of Nico, and my jaw drops. His swing was smooth and powerful. He made hitting a home run look easy. When the camera zooms in on his face, you can tell that he knew the ball was gone before it hit the bleachers.
I’m gobsmacked at his athletic prowess, and I can’t tear my eyes away from him when he returns to the field, wearing his gear. There’s something about the way his gray eyes glimmer from behind the shadows of his mask.
I stay glued to the TV for the rest of the game—with the Evaders winning 16-1—and for the post-game interviews, where Nico answers questions from the reporters. He answers everyone with polite confidence. While I’ve never directly watched him before, I heard rumors he was an arrogant asshole, but from watching this, that’s not how I perceive him now.
I push those notions away and turn off the TV. Guilt swirls in my stomach. How could I even think he’s a decent person when he hurt Charlotte?
I grab my glass of wine and the blanket off the back of my couch, then head outside to the chaise lounge on my balcony. Minutes pass, and condensation begins to coat my wine glass as I swirl the stem between my fingers. My eyes bounce to the darkened apartment next door, and I take another sip of my wine.
Our balconies butt up against each other, both facing west for optimal sunset views. The closeness only enhances the difficulty of ignoring the cocky man next door. His lights are off, and I can’t help but wonder if he’s currently out with his team. Knowing him and his playboy lifestyle, he’s most likely at some fancy club, surrounded by women.
My lip curls in disgust at the thought.
Do not think about Nico Romero with other women. In fact, do not think of Nico Romero at all. Full stop.
The unwanted memory of him huskily expressing how he would be happy to help me with myneedscomes to mind.Shivers race down my spine at the thought. I wrap the thin blanket tighter around my shoulders. Because it’s cold. Not because of anything else.
And definitely not because of my sexy-as-sin neighbor.
My traitorous body calls bullshit as the apex of my thighs grows heavy and pulses. I lean back on the chaise and close my eyes. Every thought in my head flutters around in a jumbled mess.
He’s a jerk, a womanizer, and a heartbreaker,I repeat in my head.
I try to ignore the new facts I’ve learned about Nico and force them back into the neat little box I had them in. It’s better that way. Safer.
