Singer

And love did . . .

Melanie fell completely in love with Mike. It only took two weeks and she was ready for the white picket fence and two-point-five kids with him.

Her head is firmly in the clouds and her feet ten miles off the ground, walking on air. Her giddiness is usually contagious, but a certain person of the opposite sex has me all twisted, trying to decipher what the hell he wants with me—friend or lover.

As soon as Ethan returned from a business trip, he called to ask me to come to a sold-out game with him. With my wing-girl now occupied with her new boyfriend, I’m flying solo more than naught these days, so I readily accept the invite. Practice or no practice.

As soon as our eyes meet, his body starts shaking with laughter. I look down at my outfit and make sure there’s not toilet paper hanging from my jeans or some weird wardrobe malfunction. Everything appears fine. But he’s still chuckling. Instead of hello, I ask, “What?”

Facepalming himself, he shakes his head, then laughs again. “Are you trying to get my ass kicked?”

Totally confused to what is so funny, I confess, “I’m lost.”

“An Astros hat with a Yankees shirt?”

“I thought since they were both playing that I could support them both.”

“It doesn’t work like that.” I raise an eyebrow when he goes on to explain, “You have to stand by your team. Through good and bad, thick and thin—”

“Hell or high water?”

“Yes,” he replies, amused. “You have to remain steady in your support. There’s no fair-weather friends in sports. You have to be all in for your team.”

“You’ve got to do it for your country,” I joke.

He tips the bill of my cap down. “Ya goofball.”

“But you gave me the hat.” His passion over the outfit morphs into a broad and gorgeous smile. He uses it like a weapon, hitting me right in the . . . I fan myself. Damn him. “So what you’re saying is I need an Astros shirt now?”

“Yep. C’mon. My treat.”

Thirty minutes later, I’m wearing a new Astros jersey and my Yankees shirt has been stuffed inside my purse. “Looking good there, Davis.”

“Thanks,” I reply with a wiggle of my shoulders.

The fans around us are not as amused. When we get a few dirty looks as we head for our seats, I ask, “Are we going to get our asses kicked for wearing these shirts in enemy territory?”

“Let ’em try.”

His biceps flex; I’m not sure if he’s aware that they do, but I sure am. Sculpted muscle that takes time to define peeks out from under his sleeve. “Beer?” he asks.

“Yeah, sure.” My throat’s gone dry. “I’m thirsty.”

“Hey, you still with me?” Brushing against me, he asks, “Where are your thoughts?”

In the gutter. It’s not fair to react like this to a man who’s currently captaining a love embargo, but he sure makes it hard not to. “Just excited to be here.” With you.

“I’ve been looking forward to it all week.”

“It should be a good game. Even though they’re playing away, the oddsmakers have the Astros. I hear that’s uncommon.” I might have studied a few sports sites to get caught up on what’s happening with the two teams.

“I meant seeing you.” He chuckles. “But yes, it’s uncommon for the Astros to get any support. They’re scrappy this year.”

Our gazes hold a few seconds before I start to ask, “Yeah, scrappy . . . What happened to just being fri—” I’m knocked sideways as some guy sideswipes me to the right when he barges between Ethan and me.

A strong hand grabs my wrist before I fall back any farther. I’m righted and my hand goes to cover my chest, which hurts from the impact. Concern—a deeper shade of the usual green—colors his eyes as they peer into mine. In a swift move, he closes the distance to the guy and knocks him on the shoulder. “Watch where you’re fucking walking.”

The balding Yankees fan is a few years older and bigger than Ethan in size, though not in height. “What’d you say to me?”

“You knocked my girlfriend. Watch where you’re walking.”

Girlfriend rings in my ears, so loud that I almost don’t hear the other guy.

“Fuck you, fucking Astros.” The guy spits at Ethan’s feet, his buddies laughing.

“Be careful how you speak to me. Your insubordination will not be tolerated.”

“What the fuck?” the guy mutters, confused as he looks to his buddies. “Insubordination?”

“Apologize to her and then watch where you’re fucking walking next time.” The growl in Ethan’s voice rumbles from his chest, anger tightening the muscles in his neck.

The man must realize he’s met his match because he looks at me, and says, “Sorry about running you down. I wasn’t paying attention.”

Still holding my chest, I nod and shift uncomfortably under everyone’s attention. Ethan says, “Thank you.”

“Whatever,” is heard as the guy walks away.

“Are you okay?” Ethan asks, approaching me.

“Fine. You didn’t have to do that.”

“I did,” he replies lighter in mood. “He’ll keep plowing through the crowd if someone doesn’t stop him.”

We start walking again, and I peek up at him. “You called me your girlfriend,” I whisper.

I see the small smile before he restrains it. “You’re a girl and you’re my friend.”

“Ahh. Well, an asshole move on his part isn’t worth getting in a fight over.”

Ethan comes to a stop, a hand finding my hip while his eyes roam over my face appreciatively. “It wasn’t about him. It was about you and making sure he knew he can’t get away with hurting you.” Taking me by the hand, he adds, “C’mon. Let’s get that beer and head to our seats. The game’s going to start.”

Thoroughly confused, I tug him to a stop. “Ethan, what’s going on?”

He looks back at me quizzically. “We’re going to watch a baseball game.”

“No, with this?” I lift our hands up between us.

My hand is released. “Sorry, just protective, I guess. I know you can take care of yourself.” Nodding toward the direction we’re heading, he starts walking.

I remain in place watching him, more perplexed than ever about what this is between us, what we are to each other, and what tonight is really about. He said he’d been looking forward to seeing me. So many questions and he’s still walking away, so I jog to catch up, leave them to ask another day, or at least when we’re not on a mission for beer before a playoff game.

With a beer in hand ten minutes later, I stand next to him in front of an elevator. “Where are we going?”

His eyes are trained on the floor number above the door. “To the suites.”

“Really? How’d you score that?”

“I have rich friends,” he replies while glancing down at me.

“I need some of those. Why’d we buy beers at the concession stand?”

Looking over the lip of my cup, he sees that I’ve already drunk almost half. “Thought you might be thirsty.”

“Guess I was.” Nervous is more like it, but I’m good with him thinking I’m thirsty.

When we arrive in the suite, I’m in awe. Taking me by the elbow, he shows me to the seats. I’m too busy staring at the field and this vantage point to worry about my seat though. “Rich friends are very good to have.”

“They sure are.” And there’s that sexy wink again.

Four innings in, and I’m stuffed from all the good food and candy. The suite life is definitely the sweet life, except Ethan’s been busy the whole time talking to some men sharing the box. When he returns and finally sits down, he asks, “How’s the game?”

“Good. You should watch it.”

His laugh has become one of my favorite sounds. “Hint taken.”

“No hint. Just a little lonely.”

His hand covers mine on the armrest between us, and he squeezes lightly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t expect to run into them and they had some business to discuss. I’m all yours for the rest of game.”

All mine. My bottom lip gets tugged under my teeth just thinking about the possibility. My gaze dips down, lingering on the strong lines of his hand and wrist, the veins prominent and strong. He was ready to fight for me. That might be a turnoff if another guy angers easily, but knowing Ethan was defending me is a whole other story.

He leans back in his chair, and whispers, “I’m glad I’m here with you.”

That makes all the difference in the world to me, but I’m not willing to put that out there. “That’s nice of you to say.” My annoyance isn’t kept at bay this time.

His hand disappears too soon from mine, but I leave mine there in case he gets the urge to return his. “What’s wrong?”

“Why do you say things like that?”

“I say what I feel.”

“You put words carelessly out there without regards to how they might make me feel.”

Shifting in his seat, he comes closer, and whispers, “How do they make you feel?”

“Like there’s hope for us when there’s not.”

His eyes return to the baseball field. When they return to me, he sighs. “I like spending time with you. I’m doing the best I can right now.” Running his hand through his hair, he says, “My life is comp—”

“Complicated. I get it, but you’re making my life complicated.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to, Singer. I know it’s selfish to leave you with vague answers, but there’s no hidden agenda here. I just thought it was time we get to know each other. We seem to find ourselves in the same place quite often.”

“But why now? It’s been a year.”

“Because I’m finally free to do so.”

“You’re not as free as you think you are if your life is too complicated to consider more.” More? I sound like a whore begging for sex. Ugh.

A small smile appears, some relief found in his eyes. “I want to get to know you. How about we start there?”

Seems I’m not going to break through that wall of secrets he has raised high around him. I have to make a decision. Do I want a friendship with Ethan, or do I cut my losses now and walk away?

I start to stand. My hand is instantly pinned to the armchair. It doesn’t hurt, but it gives his real feelings away. “Please stay, Singer.”

“Why?”

The stress crinkles at the corners of his eyes as a debate rages inside. “Because I may not want to involve you in my complications, but it doesn’t mean I don’t want to involve you in my life.”

I stand there looking at him, the truth not only heard in his words, but written all over his face. I sit back down. “Okay.”

“Let’s start again.”

I agree and ask, “What do you want to know about me?”

“Let me see . . .” We watch a few plays, then he asks, “You work at a financial firm. What do you do there?”

“I work for a financial advisor. I’m an assistant. I edit all the documents that go out and pretty much run his career while he makes the big bucks.”

“So you’re not happy doing that?”

“I’d rather work in publishing.”

Interested, he asks, “Oh really? Doing what?”

I feel silly voicing my career goals to someone who seems to have his life together in spite of some complications. I do it though. I give a voice to my dreams and send a wish into the universe. “I want to be an editor of fiction, specifically. I love getting lost in a good book.”

“Why don’t you do that currently?”

“Because I need to pay rent. I keep on top of the market and send out my résumé when I see opportunities. It’s a small industry so the jobs are hard to come by.”

“I have faith in you.”

“You and Mel. Lately, I’ve been starting to wonder if it’s time to face reality and settle into a career that’s reachable.”

“Doing something that’s reachable isn’t a dream. It’s just, I don’t know, life. Don’t give up.”

“I think some days I’m just tired of the struggle.”

“To pay rent?”

“To pay bills, make ends meet, rent, food, going out. I’m broke most of the time.” Rolling my eyes at myself, I add, “This is probably not considered an attractive quality.”

“Being broke?”

I laugh. “Yeah. I don’t need someone to rescue me—”

“I can tell. You’re a strong woman, Singer. Just hang on a little longer. Your dreams might come true. Speaking of selfish, I really would like you to stay.”

The intensity behind his words and in his eyes hits me, and my throat goes dry. When I finally exhale a long held breath, I say, “I will, for now.” I only receive a nod in return, but what do I expect him to say? “What about you?” This time I’m not feeling so shy. “I don’t know much about you either. Tell me something your mother doesn’t know.”

Chuckling, he replies, “My mother doesn’t know a lot about me. It’s probably best to keep it that way.” He settles in. With his eyes on the field, he kicks a foot up on the wall. His gaze works its way back to me, reticence in the comforting greens. “You didn’t look me up.”

“You asked me not to.” I shrug. “Anyway, I like to get to know a person from talking to them. Why waste my precious youth googling someone who said he can’t practice with me?”

“All good points.” He chuckles. “I agree that I’d rather get to know you from spending time with you as well. So if it matters, I didn’t look you up either. I also didn’t ask our mutual friends, though I’ll tell you, I was tempted a time or two.”

“Why don’t you just ask me?”

A small shrug is followed by a smaller smile. “I don’t know. I’m afraid to mess things up.”

“With us?”

“Yeah, I like that it’s easy to talk to you. And I like the way you look at me like—”

Some man grabs his shoulder and shakes it. “Good to see you, Everest. Call me on Monday, and we’ll wrap things up.”

“Yeah. I will. Thanks.” He shakes his hand then turns back to me.

I’m still hanging on his last words. “Like what?”

“Huh?”

“You said I look at you like . . . and then you were interrupted.”

He smiles and it’s as bright as the lights over the stadium. With a gentle elbow nudge, he says, “Maybe I spoke too soon about practicing with you, but I like hanging out and don’t want to screw this up by having sex with you.”

Is my mouth hanging open because it sure feels like a gaping hole after hearing that statement from him? Hinging my jaw back up, I could analyze what he said for hours, but right now all I can say is, “You’re very comfortable talking about having sex with me.”

“Sorry. Too much? I’m trying to be upfront with you.”

“I like that you’re honest. I just . . . I don’t talk about it so freely. I’m kind of a prude when it comes to that.”

“To sex or talking about it?”

It’s not lost on me. Ethan Everest wants to sleep with me. It’s also not overlooked that he likes our friendship. I do too. My cheeks are on fire, way beyond friendship and deepening into lust. I whisper, “Talking about it.”

“You don’t come off as someone who blushes from the drop of a little sex talk.”

Scoffing, I reply, “I might take offense to that.”

He laughs. “No, no offense intended. You just seem open. Maybe it’s that you’re easy to talk to, so I open up.”

“Okay, that’s not so bad. Good save by the way. And since when does sex screw things up?”

After the laughter stops, he says, “Maybe that’s only with me.”

“Sex with you screws things up? Maybe you’re having sex with the wrong people then.” Even though I return my focus to the game, I can feel him staring at me. When I glance over at him again, his gaze is heavy, but his eyes seem to carry the weight of the world. Why?

“I think you could be right.” He turns back to the game, the conversation over by the looks of his attention toward the field, and the posturing as he grumbles because of a bad play.

I sit back and drink my beer, though all I want to do is talk more about sex with the right and wrong person and why he thinks he spoke too soon when it came to me. So many questions, but I don’t ask them because I’m afraid to screw up whatever this is with him.

* * *

The Astros lose, but we still walk out proud supporters in our shirts and hats. No fair-weather friends here. Nope. We’ll show our support even through defeat, and joke about it along the way. Outside on the sidewalk, he stops and looks at me. With a tug to the bill of my cap, he says, “You look cute.”

First it was good. Now it’s cute. I think this might be progress. And as I start analyzing what he actually says, I think he’s going to continue with in this hat or in this shirt, but he doesn’t. He just leaves it right there with “you look cute.” And my smile couldn’t get bigger. I tug on the bill of his hat and say, “You look cute, too.” So cute, handsome. Knee weakening. Panty dropping . . . He reminds me of Sam Hunt with his boy-next-door charm and happy-go-lucky attitude. “So where you taking me now?”

“Who says I’m taking you anywhere?” He tries to hold a straight face, but fails. “Come on, let me buy you a drink. Us defeated fair-weather friends have to stick together.” He wraps his arm around my neck, and we start walking. My heart is racing and the buzz I was feeling earlier is gone. I’m sobered by his touch, his smile, by his body pressed against mine.

My feelings are jumbled by what he says, and my body reacts to every little smile he sends my way. I’ll wholeheartedly blame the alcohol. It’s easier than blaming myself.