“What gave it away? The bad date?” I ask. “Or are you predicting based on my luck so far?”
“The new shoes.” He points at my feet. “I know those are your solace.”
Sighing heavily, I fall into my desk chair. “Shoes have never disappointed me.”
“Sorry you’re having a rough go of it out there, love,” he says.
I swat the whole subject away like the pesky thing it is. “Enough about my dating woes. Tell me about yours.”
He looks sheepish, spearing his fingers through his dark-blond hair. “Will it make you feel worse if I say mine aren’t woeful at all?”
“Really?” I sit up with interest. “Restore my faith in dating humanity. No pressure.”
Chuckling, he shakes his head then lets loose a bright smile. “Things with Phoebe are great. I’m very, very happy with her.”
“Oh?” I lean forward, my elbows on the desk. “You’ve seen her a lot in just a few weeks. Do you think it could get serious?”
“I think I have a seriously good time when we go out together,” he says, evading the question.
“That’s good.” If someone is going to have fun falling in love while I’m in some kind of romance torture experiment, it definitely should be Matthew. He’s a good guy, and gorgeous, and then there’s the accent.
If only I wasn’t against dating at work . . .
No. When I picture an “if only” guy, it’s not Matthew I see. It’s the San Francisco Cougar ballplayer with a crooked boy-next-door smile and let’s-get-into-trouble eyes.
3
Nadia
A few more months later
Something I love about my job?
Awards ceremonies.
Big, splashy events with red carpets, flashing cameras, and everyone in tuxes and formal wear.
I love pretty dresses, and these galas are that, dialed up to eleven. Satin or silky, floor-length and flowing or short and sassy—I like to change it up, keep the press guessing.
But for some reason, I’m having trouble picking a showstopper to wear to the LGO Excellence in Sports Awards Gala. I have plenty of gorgeous dresses in my bedroom-sized closet, but none of them are grabbing me. As I hold one after another up in front of me in the mirror, I keep wondering what Crosby would think of them. Then I tell myself to stop trying to impress him, which only makes me think of him more.
Finally, I follow the prompt from my subconscious and call him. We exchange pleasantries like it’s been days instead of months since we talked, then I say, “Rumor on the street is you’ll be at the LGO Excellence in Sports Awards Gala.”
“The rumor, huh?” Crosby’s warm, gravelly voice, full of humor, makes me smile. “That’s me, I guess. Everyone’s favorite topic of conversation.”
I don’t know what I was worried about. Calling him was absolutely the right thing to do. My shoulders unknot, and I appreciate my clothes the way they should be appreciated.
Heading out to my living room, I sink onto the couch in my apartment, and let myself enjoy the phone call. “So, you’re going?”
“I’ll definitely be there. How about you?”
“Same.”
There’s a slight pause. “Are you bringing anyone?”
“No. Oh, well, Matthew will be there, but he works for me. Otherwise, it’ll just be me, my designer clutch, and enough cash for the bar.”
“I can spot you for a drink. Assuming it’s not an open bar. I don’t remember. Maybe that’s the Sports Network Awards. Or I’m thinking of a wedding I went to.”
“Probably the latter.” I lean back on the couch, stretch out my legs, and fold them back up, all before I ask, “Will your date mind you buying me a possibly free drink?”
“No date for me either. So no problem.”
I snort. Obviously no problem. No woman is going to tell him, “Sorry, sweetie, but you belong in the kitchen,” or feel emasculated by his salary.
My desire for companionship isn’t about the event; I like going solo. It’s my regular life that feels kind of . . . partnerless.
“What’s that sigh for?” he asks, hearing more than I wanted him to.
“It wasn’t a sigh. It was a snort.”
“Okay. Then what was the snort for? Is something on your mind?”
I don’t want to unload on him, certainly not about my dating woes. He doesn’t need to hear that finding a date is harder than finding a quarterback, and there’s literally nothing harder than that in the NFL.
“Oh, it’s just been a long day,” I fudge. “Contract negotiations.”
He makes a purring sound. “Oh, you’re so sexy when you talk about contract negotiations.”
I laugh. “You want me to whisper sweet nothings about mediation?” His purr gets louder. “Free agency?”
“Oh, baby.”
This time I snort with laughter, and he breaks too.
“Real talk though,” he says. “Tell me what you’re working on. I’m in baseball, so nothing you say will do me any good.”
I wiggle more comfortably into the couch cushions and update him on the team, then I make him tell me about his upcoming home stand, the games he’s playing, the pitches he’s connecting with this season. An hour goes by in a blink, and before I know it, I’m yawning at the end of a second one.
“I can’t believe I’m keeping you up this late,” I tell him without an apology.
“You are,” he says with gravel in his voice. “You’re a night owl, and I’m not.”
“I bet you’d be a night owl if you gave it a chance. You can practice at the awards.”
“Well, they’re in LA, so same time zone. Don’t worry. I won’t fall asleep next to you in the theater.”
I guess we’re sitting together. No complaints here.
“I can nudge you if you start to snore.”
“Counting on it,” he says.
We end the call, and I trip along to the closet to finally pick a dress, as excited about the event in LA as if it were a date.
And, well, it feels a little bit like one.
But it’s not.
The night of the awards, I absolutely cannot resist watching Crosby Cash from across the ballroom.
I’m trying not to be too
