Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 91497 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 457(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91497 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 457(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
“Who’s next in the lineup?”
Normally, I’d know this sort of thing already, but I’ve purposely kept my head in the clouds with this game. Better that way.
“Navarro.”
His name makes me feel butterflies.
I don’t say a word about that. Instead, I focus down on my dinner.
Daphne, the kind soul that she is, makes me food before every one of my shifts. It’s the least I can do for the children! she likes to tell me.
Tonight, she’s layered blackened chicken over a bed of whole grain rice with a side of sautéed zucchini and yellow squash drizzled in some kind of amazing garlic sauce. For dessert, she’s tucked in one of Chloe’s leftover pastries from yesterday.
Bianca has the volume turned down low on her phone so people passing by won’t take note of it, but it’s still loud enough that I can listen to the game while I eat.
“Good patience from Navarro there on the first pitch,” the announcer says.
I’m dying to look at her phone. I know they’ll have to zoom in on Grant if he’s at bat. I haven’t seen him since I left him in that room after our kiss.
I wonder if he’s thought about me…
“We saw this during spring training,” the announcer continues. “The Pinstripes are extremely good at getting runners in scoring positions. Especially useful now when you consider they have a powerhouse like Navarro.”
His voice dies down, and without glancing at the screen, I know the pitcher’s about to fire off his second throw. I hold my breath right along with the crowd, then there’s the telltale crack of Grant’s bat hitting the ball. The announcer’s voice builds with excitement.
“Grant Navarro hits it deep in the air toward left centerfield…Gardener watches this one sail out of the ballpark…wow. That drives in the first three Pinstripes runs for the day. Three to nothing. New York on top.”
“Damn.” Bianca’s attention is now squarely on her phone as she watches Grant run the bases. I can’t help myself; I indulge too. What does it matter? No one will ever know.
Grant’s finger is raised toward the sky as he rounds second on his way to claim his run. He smiles out at the fans as he shakes his head. Then he looks down for a moment, clearly overwhelmed after having hit his first homer with the Pinstripes during a regular season game. He must be elated.
The camera zooms in on him as he reaches home plate, and he slides off his helmet on his way back to the dugout. His black hair is messy, sweaty, hot. His brown eyes shine with happiness. Just before he heads down the steps to join his team, he stops and looks up into the stands. The crowd’s going wild for him, shouting and waving signs, giving him all the love he deserves for bringing in those three runs for us. The camera doesn’t pan away. Those cameramen know what they’re doing, let me tell you. He’s absolutely devastatingly handsome. God, it’s agony to look at him. The ladies at the stadium must be fanning themselves.
Bianca shakes her head. “That boy is easy on the eyes. And don’t bother reminding me that he’s young enough to be my son. Let a lady live a little.”
I chuckle. “You didn’t hear me say anything.”
Her gaze slides to me. “Have you met him yet? With your brother?”
“No,” I lie. Because what else can I do?
“Well if you ever get the chance, please lord, take me with you.”
Luke takes the pitcher’s mound at the top of the fourth, and while it might seem like a blessing to get to eat and take notes while I watch him play, it’s not really a pleasant experience. I hold my breath the entire time. My hands grip my chair. My stomach churns with nerves and I end up pushing aside the last half of my dinner.
The opposing team doesn’t score on him, though, and we go into the bottom of the fourth with our three-run lead.
Bianca looks down the hall and hums mm mm mmm like something’s absolutely delicious. “Speaking of sexy men…”
I look up to see Michael making his way toward the nurses’ station in his navy scrubs. Michael is one of the physical therapists who works on our team. He’s a year younger than me with a broad-shouldered frame, sandy brown hair, and these electric blue eyes. He’s the hospital’s resident hottie. He knows it, of course, mostly because women like Bianca—people with no skin in the game—have no problem skirting hospital HR rules so they can compliment him on his “fine-ass” physique. He takes it in stride, and I don’t think it truly bothers him that everyone fawns over him.
He strolls right up to the desk—just on the other side of my computer monitor—and drums his fingers on the counter.