"You like her."
I rolled my eyes. "Are we back on this?"
"Did we ever leave?" She sipped her latte. "Just admit it. You never would have let her spend so much time with us, especially Monty, if she didn't meansomethingto you. She makes you happy."
"Yeah," I agreed begrudgingly. If only it were that simple. "She does."
She clapped a hand on my shoulder. "Jeez, Sore, that's agoodthing."
"But you know what else makes me happy? Playing ball. Making a name for myself. Providing my family with everything they deserve and more."
Confusion colored her face. "Do you think that's what we expect from you?"
"That's the least youshouldexpect from me."
"Oh, sweetie." Her face softened. "I don't know what happened between you and the pop star, but forget about it. Clarke is not her. Clarke doesn't give two shits about your name or your money or where you come from. And neither do we. Win or lose, we're all so proud of you."
My jaw clenched. This conversation would be better suited for a bottle of bourbon than a box of fritters.
"Okay, enough of this," she said, lightening the mood. "We've got a flight to catch, and you've got a girl to wake up."
Shelby threaded her arm through mine. Apparently, all it took to revive her was some fresh air and a vanilla latte.
"By the way, since when do you drink upside-down caramel macchiatos?"
"Oh, that's not for me. That's for—"
"Let me guess. For 'fun'?" I cleared my throat. "Mm-hmm, thought so."
By the time I reached Clarke's hotel room, I had officially made up my mind. I was going to show her just how great we could be together. As in, together for real.
No expiration date, no sex list. Not that there was much left on her sex list at this point anyway.
Maybe it's time to create another list together.
I still had my reservations about being in a relationship during baseball season, but I also knew that I wasn't ready to let Clarke go. I couldn't. Now, I just had to show her that I was boyfriend material. And what did good boyfriends do? They surprised their girlfriends with spontaneous dates.
"Wait, where are we going?" Clarke asked after she'd polished off her second donut. I'd put away four, but after this morning's hot yoga session, I figured I deserved it.
I laced my hands through hers, and because I was a masochist, I held them against the small of her back so her unbound breasts pressed against me. Finding her in bed—exactly where I left her this morning—wearing nothing but an oversized T-shirt that barely covered her ass was something I could get used to.
"Wear comfortable shoes, pack a change of clothes, and bring sunscreen." I ran a hand over her ample cheeks before smacking one hard enough to make it jiggle.
She jumped out of my arms, rubbing a hand over her ass. "Okay, Mr. Bossy Pants."
While she spent the next thirty minutes getting ready for the day, I cleared the crumbs off the table and made her bed.Our bed.I pretended to be lost in my phone when she pranced out of the bathroom wearing nothing but a pink bralette and matching panties held together by a bow on each side. I was going to be thinking about those bows all day. More specifically, about how easy it would be to untie them.
"Okay," she said, twirling to show off her floral print romper and sneakers. "Right as rain, and I packed a bag."
"You look beautiful."
"Oh, stop. This isn't anything fancy. I just—"
"Don't," I told her, coming to my feet. "Don't do that. I don't ever want to hear you minimizing yourself, your looks, your accomplishments. You're never 'just' anything."
Her eyes grew wide with surprise and then drunk with desire. She fisted my shirt in her clutches, pulling my mouth to hers. "You're something else, Soren Sinclair," she whispered against my lips.
"Don't ever forget it, baby."
