And then his gaze landed on me. I was about to say something about him giving roses to every female in my family except me. But my thoughts were short-circuited the moment his gaze landed on me.
It was all in his eyes. Sure, his body stilled. His hands paused, and his mouth slipped open a bit. His nostrils might even have flared, but his eyes were what mesmerized me. They looked at me from top to bottom and back again. And then they just held my face. He seemed awestruck, his gaze taking on a laser-like intensity that I’d only seen him have when he played.
Okay, I admit it—I’d watched him play a few thousand times, seeing the camera catch the way he’d knock down a grounder with ease and whip it to first base. I’d even made it into a GIF, repeating that catch, pivot, turn, over and over. It was that one moment when everything in his body and mind were aimed at one goal: to get the runner out.
Except now, that attention was locked on me. My breath caught, my toes curled in my sparkly sandals, and yes, my nipples tightened. Right there in front of my parents. But hell, I couldn’t stop it. And I certainly couldn’t look away. Jake Armstrong had his gaze focused on me, and I was powerless in his grip.
And the silence stretched on.
In the end, it was Rachel who broke the moment. “Flowers for me, huh? Cool. What did you bring for Ellie?”
Blunt, much? My cheeks heated to crimson. “Um, I kind of forced him into this date, Rach. He doesn’t need to give…” My voice trailed away as he pulled out a velvet jewelry pouch from his pocket and held it out to me. But at my words, he tightened his fist around it.
“You didn’t force me,” he said, his tone indignant. “How could I be forced into a date?”
Oh, shit. Had I wounded his pride? “Um, because I asked you out. In public. And in a way you probably felt you couldn’t refuse.”
He snorted, the sound at odds with hisGQappearance. It told me, as clearly as anything, that peer pressure wasn’t a factor in anything he did. And then suddenly, he was back to smooth. His hand relaxed on the jewelry pouch, but he didn’t give it to me. Instead, he used his other hand to reach out to me. I hadn’t thought he was close enough to touch me, but he was an athlete, quickly nabbing my numbed fingers and tugging me forward.
I took a step, grateful I didn’t stumble when he raised the back of my hand to his mouth. His lips were soft and the slip of wetness when his tongue slid over my skin was indecently erotic. And then he flipped my hand over so my palm was facing up.
“I wanted to go on a date with you, Ellie. You have no idea how much.”
And then he opened the jewelry pouch and spilled a silver charm bracelet into my palm. It was heavy in my hand and glimmered in the light.
“May I put it on you?” Now he had the smooth moves to go with theGQattire. Enough that I couldn’t speak except to nod.
He released my hand, then picked up the bracelet and linked it around my wrist. I shivered at his touch. It wasn’t just the tingles that came with the caress. No, I was still looking at his eyes, and his gaze was holding mine with an intensity that set my nerves on fire as he fastened the jewelry on.
Dark, deep green eyes. And while he held my wrist, his gaze dropped to my mouth.
My lips were dry, so I licked them. It was an unconscious gesture, but the moment I did it, his hand tightened on my wrist. His nostrils flared. And damn if he didn’t draw me another step closer.
Um, was it possible to orgasm from just having a hand around your wrist? While in front of your parents? I never would have thought so, but I was wet in places and plump in others. And I was still powerless to do anything but feel.
“Oh, look!” said Rachel. “It’s got your number on it.”
“Yes, it does,” Jake said as he lifted my wrist higher into the light.
Then he looked away from my face. And when he shifted, I was finally able to tear my gaze away from him. Spell broken, right? Except no. My eyes went where he wanted them, to where our hands were joined and the number 32 flashed on my bracelet right next to a baseball charm.
I felt marked. It was silly. But the moment I saw his number on my wrist, I felt like I was his. Labeled. Claimed. Owned. It should have triggered all my feminist outrage, but it didn’t. Instead, I felt warmed in a deliciously naughty way. Like I shouldn’t want this, but oh my God, I did.
And that confused me.
“Do you like it?” Jake asked. He twisted my wrist to show me the charms.
“I love it,” I whispered. “It’s beautiful, and it’s your number.”
He flashed me a grin. “Is that your way of saying, You’ve got my number?”
“I think that would be you saying it to me, right? You’re the one who picked it.”
His grin widened. “Maybe I was. Or maybe I just like the idea of you wearing it.”
Hell, I already knew I’d happily wear anything of his. His jersey. His number. His anything. But I couldn’t say that out loud. Because somehow, I’d stepped even closer to him. Near enough to catch his scent mixed with some cologne that smelled expensive. It went straight to my head and tangled my tongue.
And then Jake was steering me out the door. “Come on. We don’t want to be late.”
