His brow lifts. “Which am I of what?”
“Are you smart, or are you an athlete?”
“I can’t be both?” His spine straightens.
“Well,” I say, unconsciously leaning in his direction, “youarein a bookshop. My mind’s going where it’s going.”
He laughs musically. “Naturally, I play baseball for the university.”
“Oh. Cool.” My boy-girl conversation has been stunted since birth, but it’s desperate to keep trying. “I know nothing about baseball, but I played softball for one year when I was nine.”
“What position?” he asks.
“Juicebox passer outer.”
“A vital role,” Liam says.
“I thought so. What position are you?”
“Beer passer outer.”
I can’t tell if he’s joking or if he really is a second-string player. Something tells me it’s the former. That he’s talented, but also self-deprecating.
“Do you have a walk-up song?” I ask.
“‘Good Day’ by Greg Street and Nappy Roots.”
My face breaks into a grin. “That’s a great choice.”
“I thought so.” He’s grinning now too.
“When did your season end?”
“Late June. But we train year-round.”
“Yeah, you look like it,” I say, then clap a hand over my mouth.
“Your neck is blushing again,” Liam says, smirk firmly in place.
“I just admitted you look fit.”
“Yes, it was very flattering. My ego is somewhere in the rafters.”
“I am mortified right now.”
“Do you want me to flatter you back?”
I shake my head. “I think that might make it worse—”
“I followed you in here.”
Silence stretches out like warm taffy between us. The blush on my skin calms, replaced by a cold rush of air that pushes against me from nowhere. “You did?”
He nods, expression level. “I saw you come in here when I was heading to the coffee shop next door. After I got my drink, I followed you inside.”
“Why?” I ask. My voice is a ghost, and my eyes graze back up to Liam’s.
“Guess.” His voice drops lower.
