“We could call it dynamic stretching.”
I chuckled. “Or we could name it what it is—a way to avoid talking.”
He nibbled up under my jaw. “Afterward. Okay?”
What could I say? It wasn’t like I wanted to confess that I was yearning to have his babies. That I’d fantasied about our entire life together while he was blowing the game against the Indians. Why not dive into the physical? At least for now.
“Okay.”
He carried me into the bedroom. I lay back, closed my eyes, and gave myself over to him, whatever he wanted, however he wanted, flexibility be damned.
But by morning, we’d run out of excuses. He was eating sliced strawberries off my stomach and talking about ambrosia, whatever the hell that was. We’d just made love for the fourth time, but the desperate energy had gone out of us both. It was time to talk, and part of me was glad to do it naked.
If I was going to blow us apart, at least I could watch his glorious physique while I destroyed my own fantasy future. So I scooted backward on the bed, admired the breadth of his shoulders, and teased a toe along his washboard abs.
He quirked an eyebrow at me, and I shrugged. No words were needed. He understood. So he sat back with a sigh and absently began rubbing the arch of my foot.
“I’m not sure I have the answers you want,” he said.
“I’m not sure I know what answers I want.”
He smiled at that and looked past me to the mirror. His expression softened and grew a little lustful. I had no idea how my reflection could look sexier than me, sitting right in front of him, but I’d take it. I lifted my chin and toyed with the idea of seducing him one more time. It sure was a fun way to avoid things. But then he started to speak.
“Whenever my pitchers don’t know what to do, I start them off with what they do know.”
I quirked a brow. “You asking me to pitch to you?”
He smiled. “Whatever it is, I’ll catch it.”
“Okay. So what do we know?” I gestured to what he was doing to my foot. “I know I love that.”
“I know I love touching you. In all ways.”
I waggled my eyebrows. “Right back at ya.”
He tugged at my littlest toe, but then sobered. “I know I’ve been watching you since our New Year’s Eve kiss.” He glanced up almost apologetically. “And you’re part of my pre-game ritual.”
Baseball players, as a rule, had a zillion weird superstitions. Every player had a pre-game ritual to bring them luck. “What exactly do you do?”
He smiled. “I just have to see you sometime before I play. Remember that series last year in Chicago, when you had the flu?”
I nodded. I’d spent the entire week throwing up and praying for death, so I hadn’t traveled with the team. In fact, the coach had threatened to have me fired if I breathed anywhere near his players.
“I played awful.”
“I thought you were sick, too.”
He shook his head. “It was because I didn’t see you before each game. After that, I snapped a picture of you and kept it on my phone, just in case.”
I blinked at him. “You’re kidding.”
He abandoned my feet and scrambled out of bed to grab his phone. A moment later, he was showing me a photo of myself. I’d had a pen knotted in my hair, my lipstick was smeared, and there were bags under my eyes.
“I look awful.”
“It was your first day back. I think you were still feeling rotten, but I wasn’t taking any chances. I needed that photo.”
I shook my head. “I don’t know whether to be flattered or to worry about your sanity.” I passed him back his phone. “Could you, at least, take a better picture?”
