“So do you,” I point out with a tease in my tone.
“Damn right I do,” he says with zero playfulness in his. “I deserve it.”
“You deserve it?” I ask. “Really, Landry? Explain to me how you deserve a chance with me.”
He leans in, his features looking sharper, more regal in the light. “I want to know everything about you. The way you feel under my hands as I’m buried inside you, but I also want to know what makes you tick. How to make you laugh. The reasons you stay awake at night. What makes you smile.”
How do I respond to that? My heart tugs as I have to deal with his out-and-out declaration of what he wants. This I didn’t even try to prepare for. If he weren’t so damn genuine, it would help. If only he could give me a glimpse into the athlete inside him, it would help. If he weren’t so fucking sexy, that would really, really help.
“If your sister told you to say all these things, she should really start a romance column,” I laugh, trying to avoid having to address his words specifically.
“Nah,” he grins. “She just helped on the flowers. I’m winging the rest of it, relying on the ol’ Landry charm.”
“It’s working for you.” I take a sip of my wine and notice he winces as he picks up his glass. “How does your shoulder feel?”
He sighs. “Honestly, it’s a little sore. I haven’t thrown a ball since the last one I threw that tore it, so it’s a little stiff.”
“Oh!” I exclaim. “We didn’t have to play catch. Now I feel bad!”
His laugh rolls over the table. “I can honestly say I haven’t had that much fun playing ball in a while.”
“I’ll feel terrible if it messes up your therapy.”
“It won’t.” He takes a long drink. “Did Rocky miss me today?”
I can’t help but laugh. “He did. He drew you a picture, but I forgot it on my desk. It’s of a bird and a pig, I think. But your Van Gogh reference was a little misleading.”
He grins. “I was online last night really late because I never sleep these days.”
“Thinking of me?” I say, batting my lashes.
“Some,” he winks. “I found a painting class across town on Saturday afternoons. Have you thought about doing that?”
I can’t believe what I’m hearing. My hand stills around the stem of the wine glass and I smile at him. “What made you think of that?”
“You said you liked painting. Or you did when you were younger,” he blushes, looking down. “Maybe that was stupid.”
“That’s not stupid at all,” I whisper, my voice full of emotion. “I can’t believe you remembered that.”
He shrugs like it’s no big deal, but also like he’s embarrassed. I reach out and place my hand on top of his. The contact brings his gaze to mine.
“Thank you,” I tell him, hoping my earnestness says what I’m trying to say.
“For what?”
“For listening to me.”
He laughs, lacing our fingers together. We both look at our hands on the table, moving them around in the candlelight. His palm envelops mine, the roughness of his in contrast to the softness of mine. He brings them together and kisses them.
“You know, since I got hurt, I’ve struggled,” he says, clearing his throat and sitting our hands on the table again. “I’ve been a little lost. I mean, I play baseball. It’s what I do. Or what I’ve always done,” he says, his voice distant for a split second. “I was really having a hard time. But since I got off that elevator and chased you to your office, things haven’t seemed so bad.”
“You have to do what you can for your shoulder and let it be,” I say. But as soon as the words are out of my mouth, I realize that’s not what he meant.
“Life hasn’t seemed so bad,” he clarifies. “Not that it seemed bad before, but the entire thing was getting old. The parties. The trips. All of it,” he says, his cheeks blushing a little.
“You mean the naked pictures?”
He bursts out laughing. “Those too. I shut my ‘baseball phone’ off, as a matter of fact. But it was like cutting off a part of me and I didn’t know how to fill my time.”