Page 9 of Bad Run

“All the time.” We fall into a comfortable silence beside each other as we stare at the view of Midtown Manhattan. “I have to say, you don’t look as happy as you should be after winning the World Series.”

“Hmm,” he grunts. He still hasn’t smiled, but I get the sense he’s loosening up.

“Not a big talker?” I ask.

“Not really.”

He might not be a guy of many words, but when necessary, I can be. It’s my job, and I’m great at my job. “They say if you talk about your problems, it helps.”

“Who’s they?” he asks.

My heart skips a beat as his baby-blue eyes lock onto mine.

“Therapists?”

“Are you a therapist?” The corner of his lips twitch, sending butterflies in my stomach soaring.

What is it about him that makes my body go haywire?

I smirk at him and say, “For the right price, I can be.”

Lance barks a deliciously deep, rumbly laugh, and I feel as though I’m the one who won the World Series. Liquid heat rushes through my veins and settles between my legs.

“You’re funny. But I’m still not telling you.” He sounds adamant, but I see the cracks in his façade. Since I sat down, the muscles in his neck have softened, and there’s a gleam in his eyes.

“Stranger danger?” I ask. I’m starting to get a kick out of pulling a reaction out of him. I don’t think his feathers get ruffled easily.

“Something like that.” He chuckles, rubbing his square jaw with his large palm.

“What if we became friends?” I offer.

“And how do you suggest we do that?”

I can feel his stare as I tap my lips with my fingers and think up an idea. I’m most certainly not thinking about how his blue gaze makes my chest tight and my palms sweat.

“Got it. We each say five things we like. Then, five things we don’t like. I’ll start. I like donuts, especially ones with pink frosting and sprinkles. I like dogs, even though I’ve never had a pet. I like to watch crime documentaries. Pink is my favorite color, and French fries are the best food on the planet.”

“Donuts and fries?” There’s a hint of skepticism in his eyes as he watches me. As if he doesn’t quite believe I’m a fan of fatty, delicious food.

“Don’t judge,” I chide him.

“I’m not judging.” He puts his hands up in surrender and smiles.

My stomach dips like it does when I’m riding a roller coaster. It’s exhilarating and addictive.

“Your turn,” I tell him, giving his shoulder a nudge.

“Fine, you win.” Lance grins, and it hits me like a bolt of electricity. “But you’re wrong. Tacos are the best food on the planet. I read mystery novels when I travel. My favorite color is blue, and I have a secret stash of dark chocolate in the drawer by my bed.”

“One more.” I wiggle four fingers at him.

“And I think you’re cute.” The flirt winks at me, and my stomach somersaults again.

He thinks I’m cute.

Don’t go there, Gwen.

Doing my best to ignore the way my cheeks heat at his compliment, I curl my right ankle under my left knee and twist in his direction. “Nice try, flatterer. Tell me something real.”