“Because you’re so cute?” Oh my god, those words did not just come out of my mouth. I want to snatch them back, they feel so foreign, though the compliment did roll off my tongue pretty nicely.
Miranda stops swirling her tea around, a stunned expression filling her gorgeous face. “Did you just call me cute?”
“Yes.”
“Are you flirting with me while I’m trying to get to the bottom of this?”
It’s a mystery I can easily solve with an explanation, but now I’m having too much fun. “All I’m trying to do is get to the bottom of this glass, so I can have another one.”
“It’s iced tea,” she points out wryly, scanning the room again with her perceptive eyes. “That man over there is staring so hard I swear he wants you to notice him. He’s barely paying attention to his wife or whoever that lady is he’s with.”
Probably his wife.
I chuckle.
“Do you think this is funny?”
Wallace may have had a point when he told me, “Dude, if you stay home like a hermit and don’t go out in public, when you finally do, the media and fans will be so hungry for a picture of you it won’t be pleasant, and you’re going to hate yourself.”
He was right.
This is annoying and it sucks.
“No, I don’t think this is funny. But it happens all the time, which is why I sent my friend Wallace to get the baseball card from you.”
There, I finally fucking said it.
Sort of.
Miranda is silent, as if she’s picking apart the sentence, deciding which part to respond to. She chooses the first.
“What do you mean it happens all the time? You still haven’t told me what you do—is this because of your job? Are you on TV?” She groans. “Please do not tell me you’re the star of a reality TV show.” She feigns a gag.
“I’m not on a reality show.”
That she thinks I’m the type of guy who would do that? Laughable.
Like a police interrogator, I can see she’s determined to let the quiet stretch between us until it’s uncomfortable, or until I crack and start spilling my guts, whichever comes first.
We sit staring at one another until she raises an eyebrow.
Cocks her head. Sips at her tea.
Picks at the bread.
Dear god how long is she going to sit there not talking?
I clear my throat.
Adjust myself in my chair, rearrange the napkin on my lap.
Miranda sighs. “You’re really going to make me come out and ask?”
“Ask what?”
My date rolls her eyes. “What you do for a living that has everyone staring?”
“Not everyone is staring.” I can’t help myself. “That guy and that guy and that guy couldn’t care less.” They’re either blind and can’t see me sitting here or aren’t baseball fans.
“I’m not going to play guessing games with you, but you’re obviously on TV.”
True.
“I am on TV.” I’m proud of my career and everything I’ve built, so why is telling her so hard? It’s not like I’m bragging. It’s not like I’m trying to impress her. It’s just…facts. “I play baseball. For a living.”
The servers come and take our appetizer plates, replacing them with our entrees.
“For a living?” I see the wheels turning, a bit resistantly, it seems. “Like—professionally?”
I hold back a laugh, not wanting to piss her off. “Yes, professionally.”
“Like—how professional?” She’s got that pretty little head of hers cocked sideways at me again.
“As professional as it can get.”
Miranda blinks as if she’s not quite sure what that means. “What team?”
“Chicago Steam.”
Her lips twist in thought, making it hard to read her face. “What position?”
“Shortstop.”
“Shortstop.” She inhales. Exhales. “That’s a good position, isn’t it?”
I bust out laughing. “Yes, that’s good.”
Miranda is quiet after that, clearly mulling this news over, piecing together the bits of what she now knows about Noah Harding, and I let her ponder, uninterrupted.
After a few tastes of her dinner, a tender piece of ribs on a bed of rice that looks insanely delicious, she rests her fork on the edge of the plate. Swallows. Leans back to study me, arms crossed.
“Why didn’t you tell me sooner that you’re a ballplayer? I kind of feel like an idiot.”
I fidget, as if she’s the teacher and I’m the student, who’s just been busted doing something naughty.
“I wasn’t sure how to tell you and honestly? I didn’t think I would have to.”
“Because you weren’t planning on seeing me again?”
Bingo! “Sort of.”
“Hmm.” She hums low in her throat, but it makes its way across the table.
“The baseball thing—it’s just a job.”
Just a job? Wow. No bigger load of bullshit has ever left my mouth and I want to take the words back immediately. She and I both know it was a ridiculous thing to say.
“It’s not just a job—don’t lie. It’s a big freaking deal.” She glances around at the people watching us like we’re their entertainment for the evening. “Look around you…everyone is watching us.”
That actually makes me blush. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. Just…” She huffs. “I don’t know what to say right now.” She sets her napkin next to her plate and pushes up out of the chair, rising. “I’m going to go to the bathroom, okay?”
“Promise you won’t crawl out the back window?”
At least she laughs. “Please, this is Chicago—I’d fall into a dumpster occupied by a homeless person and a dozen rats.” Her finger taps the table twice. “Be right back.”
I’ll be waiting.
12
Miranda
“I’m sorry, can you repeat that?” The reception on my call to Claire is terrible. The sound was breaking up when I stood near the sink in the women’s bathroom, so I’m in a stall with my hand cupping the receiver and pressing my body against the cold, tile wall.
Four bars when I hover.
Two bars when I stand up straight.
Shit.
“Did you say Noah Harding?”
“Yes. I thought I already told you his last name—why do you keep repeating it?” She’s being a weirdo.
“Eh, I don’t remember—but like, Noah Harding?”
“Yes, Claire—focus! This is DEFCON-1 level shit! What do I do?” Only my
