Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 68697 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 343(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 229(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68697 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 343(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 229(@300wpm)
But he’s been nothing but helpful, especially when I was tempted to text Rafe. Instead, I’d turn to Zane, and he’d say something funny or amuse me with a stat about baseball I didn’t even realize existed, or he’d find a fun new restaurant for us to try on the road, courtesy of Maddox’s foodie knowledge.
But I’m not sure what to do about tomorrow, and I need his help. As I pull on my polo shirt, I ask, “I don’t want him there, right? I definitely don’t want to see him, right?”
Zane sighs then claps me on the shoulder. “But you do.”
I roll my eyes. “Dude! Aren’t you supposed to tell me to be strong?”
He laughs. “Be strong, man. But I want him to be there so you two can figure this shit out. Hell, I figured it out with Maddox, and he was my damn agent.”
Fair point. A player-and-agent romance is the definition of off-limits, but Zane and Maddox found a way to navigate that speed bump. Now they are goals.
Maybe Rafe and I just have too many obstacles.
“I don’t think there’s anything to figure out. I should be totally good with this.” I’m going to pep talk myself if he won’t.
“Well, you’ve been playing baseball like a god. You should be good with that.” Zane thumps his chest. “How’s that for an amazing accountability partner?”
That’s true. I have been on a hell of a tear. My stats, RBIs, and on-base percentage are through the roof. I’ve put everything into this postseason run, and it’s paying off, knock on wood.
“Thanks for reminding me—no, thanks for everything, Zane. I couldn’t get through this without you. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I say goodnight and head home. Because . . . what if Rafe is there in the morning? I need my beauty sleep and a little time to manscape.
I shave before bed so I’ll have the perfect morning scruff, then I pick just the right outfit to wear when I walk in the door. If he’s there, I both want him to miss me and pounce on me. I’m selfish like that and greedy too.
I’m antsy as I leave my place the next morning and drive to the Dog Patch District, where I expend some of that nervous energy bounding up the steps to the studio warehouse. I considered texting Rafe to see if he’s here, or will be here, but I’ve resisted contact so far, and he has too. I want the man to succeed in his business plans as much as I succeed on the diamond.
Still, it’d be a classic Rafe move for him to show up. My heart skitters in anticipation. I bet he’s in the studio waiting for me, sitting like a king in a black leather chair, all smooth and casual, licking his lips when he sees me, his eyes traveling up and down my body.
Powered by adrenaline and hope, I head inside and give my name to the receptionist, who waves me in. I turn down the hall, yank open the door to studio five, cranked up and ready.
But as I scan the white room outfitted with changing rooms, a few chaise lounges, and many bright lights, only disappointment waits for me.
Well, no. There’s also a statuesque woman with a friendly, warm smile. She was at Edge with Rafe the night I met him. She approaches me and sticks out her hand. “Hi, Gunnar. I’m Theresa, the Executive VP at Rafe Rodman. I’ll introduce you to the photographer when she arrives in a minute, and we have all the designs for you, as well as a changing room.”
My heart sinks. But then, the shoot hasn’t even started. Rafe would come at the end.
That’s his style—to surprise me and devastate me, then leave me wanting more.
39
GETAWAY JET
Rafe
I sink into the cushy leather chair in the first row of the British Airways jet. Christine makes a production of settling in next to me, setting down her book, then her tablet, then her mobile. Her sharp eyes don’t leave me the entire time while she arranges herself.
The flight attendant stops by and asks if we want coffee or tea or champagne.
“I’ll take an English breakfast, please,” I tell her.
“Same for me,” Christine says. “Thank you so much.”
“I’ll be back in a jiff, then.” The cheery woman wheels around and heads to the galley, and Christine returns to staring at me with pursed lips and eyes brimming with curiosity.
Finally, I turn to her and ask, “What is it, woman? You’re staring at me like my hair is sticking up or I’ve got something on my face.”
She laughs, swiping her dark hair off her shoulder. “I was just wondering when you were going to start scrolling through Instagram.”
I close my eyes and push my head back against the seat. “Why would you think I’d do that?”