Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 85838 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 429(@200wpm)___ 343(@250wpm)___ 286(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85838 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 429(@200wpm)___ 343(@250wpm)___ 286(@300wpm)
They probably won’t guess. For starters, he plays for San Francisco. Second, he’s not known widely yet.
But that’ll change soon if I have any say in the matter, and I intend to.
I square my shoulders, already pleased at the prospect of what’s to come for Zane Archer.
Very big things.
The man scans the sidewalk café for me, but when a McLaren zooms by, his gaze follows the powerful performance car as if he’d do anything to get his hands on one. When the vehicle’s gone, he returns to scanning for me, whipping off his shades. My neck goes hot. That’s such a power move.
I stand and walk to him, my pulse kicking faster with each step.
I squint at his shirt.
Are those…?
I can’t help but smile. The design on his shirt is made up of tiny cocktails zigzagging down his torso. Possibly Zane Archer’s way of delivering a clever reminder of the night we met and the story of his daiquiri tattoo?
Yeah, I’m pretty sure that shirt is for me.
So is the smile that spreads slowly across his face when he spots me nearing him.
Good thing I prepped for this. Rehearsed it in my mind and practiced keeping a handle on my lust. We’ll shake hands like business associates, then I’ll let go first. That’ll set the mood for today.
I reach him and follow my script, sticking out my arm. “Zane, good to see you again.”
He smirks, his lips curving into a crooked grin as he stares at my offered hand. “Good to see you too,” he says, taking my hand.
Shaking it.
Then, in one swift move I don’t see coming, he yanks me in for a hug.
Oh fuck.
This was not in my prep book. Not one bit.
He wraps his arms around me, and I’m inhaling that oak-y, showered scent of him.
Just like that, my mind scampers out of the kiddie park and marches straight into Adult Naughty Land.
2
DATING PROFILE
Zane
Every time I step into the batter’s box, I have a plan. Crowd the plate, get ahead in the count, foul off everything that looks remotely tasty.
For three years in the majors, the strategy has worked. My batting average climbed to more than three hundred last year, and it’s parked there nicely through early June.
I have a strategy for today too—treat Maddox like one of the guys. If I come on strong like I did the night we met, I’ll be thinking of him as hookup material, and that’s a recipe for trouble.
He’s a business partner. I have too much on the line to risk mixing business with pleasure.
The be-a-bud approach is how I played things when we texted about this trip to Los Angeles, making plans to meet before game one of my four-game series against the Bandits.
Admit it: you’ve got a spa day planned for us, I’d teased a few days ago.
Yes. Been meaning to ask—Swedish or sports massage?
Was hot stone not an option?
Ah, *particular about his massage services.* This is good intel, he’d replied.
Fine, don’t tell me. Just know this—I hate surprises, I’d said.
Zane, I promise I’m not surprising you. This is me literally telling you—we’re going to walk around Venice Beach, check out some shops, get a bite to eat, and chat. The better I know you, the better the deal I can make. It’s really that simple.
Now, as we wait in line at Edge & Plow, I survey the café. It’s cool and trendy, like the guy standing next to me. I survey him too—that whole I-get-shit-done look Maddox has going on with his tailored shirt, his expensive tie, and his fit-as-fuck slacks works for me big time.
Thanks a lot, temptation.
I get back in my mental batting stance. “So, this is the movie montage scene,” I muse as we wait for a couple of tourists—the white sneakers and khaki shorts are the giveaway—to order. “You know, where we wander around town and drink coffee and say witty things.”
“Do you have witty things prepared to say?” he counters.
“Hello? Back up five seconds—that was wit,” I say with a smile that covers some of my nerves about this meeting. Don’t want Maddox to know I’ve got any jitters whatsoever—about business, about baseball, or about my future in the game.
That’s the other reason I need to keep today on the level. I want to impress the fuck out of him so he’ll go to bat for me.
“Sure. You could call it a movie scene, then,” Maddox says. “But there won’t be a dressing room montage.”
I snap my fingers. “Damn. I was hoping for one.”
He gestures to the menu, diverting my attention. “What can I get for you? Coffee? Tea? Latte?”
I shudder. “I don’t drink hot beverages.”
He knits his brow in inquiry. “At all? As in, ever?”
“Nope. Never. Used to love black tea in the morning, but one time I burned my tongue when I got a tea from Starbucks. It was surface-of-the-sun hot.”