Page 8 of Bad Run

An uncontrollable hiccup bubbles out of me, catching his attention. His head lifts, and his cornflower-blue eyes find mine, hitting me with an unknown force, sending me back a step.

Busted. Caught like a creepy stalker, standing here watching him.

Without taking his eyes off me, he ends his call and shoves his phone into the pocket of his charcoal-gray slacks.

A thick and heavy silence falls over us.

Say something, you dummy.

“Hey,” I squeak out.

Seriously? “Hey” is all you can come up with? Earth, please swallow me now.

My cheeks flame as embarrassment tramples my tequila buzz to death.

Lance continues to watch me, and I can’t help but shift from foot to foot as his eyes roam up and down my body.

Does he think I’m a stalker?

“Sorry for, uh, interrupting.” Nervously, I reach up and wind a curl around my finger.

“It’s fine.” Lance sighs, then leans back against the planter and closes his eyes.

Again, I sense profound sadness in his aura.

“Is everything okay?” He doesn’t answer, and I can’t help but chatter on—something I do when I’m nervous, which isn’t often. I’m a calm and collected person, but I can be bubbly and extroverted when needed. “I swear I didn’t mean to eavesdrop.”

Lance opens his eyes and smiles sadly. “I didn’t think you were.”

I don’t know why, but something tells me, Don’t walk away, so I point to the spot beside him. “Mind if I sit down?”

“Nope.”

Pulling down my skirt, I drop to my knees, then twist and sit on my bottom, back to the planter like him. My breath hitches as my thighs kiss the cold concrete.

“I’m Gwen, by the way,” I say, slightly turning toward him to see if there’s even a hint of recognition on his face. There isn’t.

I knew there wouldn’t be, but it still stings.

“Lance,” he says, introducing himself.

“I know who you are,” I respond with a chuckle.

“Ah. Of course you do.” He nods in understanding.

“Yeah. I’m kind of an Evaders fan,” I tease.

I’m more than a fan, but he doesn’t need to know that. This might be the only chance I get with Lance where he speaks to me as though I’m just another woman he met at a club, and not the owner’s daughter.

“A real fan?” he asks. His tone isn’t completely judgmental, but the underlying tone is there.

“Yes. A true fan. I can list off stats if you want?” I turn my head to the side, watching the blue in his eyes flash with a variety of questions. He’s intrigued. It’s not a problem with me if he wants me to prove my fandom membership. “Tonight was the Evaders’ first franchise win in thirty years. This season, Cameron Miller pitched two-hundred and sixty-six strikeouts, Nico Romero hit fifty-six home runs—the most in the league—and you raised your batting average from two ninety-one to two ninety-five.”

“Okay, you can stop.,” Lance shakes his head in disbelief.

“I passed the test?” I can’t help but smile at him.

“Yes, you passed. Anyone tell you that you are kind of a smart-ass?” he asks.