“But?” I prod, shifting uncomfortably in my seat.
“Listen, you don’t exactly scream ‘relationship type’.” His use of air quotes makes me blush, though I shouldn’t take it personally since he’s not actually speaking about me. “But I had a really great fucking time with you on Friday, Lucy. I thought about you all weekend.”
At the use of my twin’s name, I manage a wobbly smile. “Me too.”
It’s the truth; I did. I had such a great time with my sister’s boyfriend, I actually lay in bed after that date, unable to sleep, seeing Dash’s dark eyes every time I closed my eyes.
“Don’t you want to see where this goes?”
Oh my God, he’s asking if I want a relationship. He wants to date me—I mean, he wants to date Lucy.
This is my chance to break up with him. I won’t have a better opportunity.
I swallow, gathering my courage.
“Date me exclusively?”
“Sí.” Yes. He laughs, my eyes drawn to his throat. “Figured I might as well bring it up now before we waste any more of our time.”
Shit. He must really like my sister or he wouldn’t have brought up the relationship talk before there was an actual relationship.
I’ve never met a guy like this before. Never.
And I’m not likely to again.
He tips his head back and laughs, the column of his thick, masculine throat contracting with the effort. I peel my eyes away, swallowing hard, squirming in the wooden chair.
God his throat is sexy.
“You want to talk about dating me? Now?”
I’m fascinated.
“Can you think of a better time?” His wide shoulders lift into a shrug. “I have no idea what normal guys do in these situations, but I think playing games is a waste of time. I also have no problem telling you what I want.”
“Uh huh.” I scan the perimeter, searching for the closest exit. A bathroom. A place where I can covertly text my sister.
He leans in farther, large body half across the table, only inches from my face. “Te ves preciosa cuando estás nerviosa, do you know that?”
He thinks I’m cute when I’m nervous?
“Am I?” I’m practically whispering.
“So fucking cute.”
He is too sweet. “Gracias.”
Suddenly, breaking up with him feels terribly wrong; all I want right now is to get up from the table and climb into his big lap and kiss his gorgeous face. That beautiful nose.
Those full, sculpted lips.
What the hell is wrong with my sister?
What the hell is wrong with me?
I want him for myself, that’s what’s wrong with me! I might not believe in Insta-love or fairy tales or sparks flying when you first meet someone, but if I did, I’m adult enough to admit that I’m feeling them now.
That I felt them as soon as I laid eyes on him standing on my twin sister’s porch.
“You need some time to think about it?”
“Huh?”
“About what you want to eat, and whether we’re going to keep seeing each other. Be honest.” He shrugs again. Shoots me a gorgeous, brilliant smile.
“Honest…right, for sure.”
“Are you worried I won’t have enough time for you?” He reaches across the table for my hand, but I pull mine back, resting it in my lap, where it’s safe. “My friends fight with their girlfriends about that all the time. I’d say it’s a huge problem for most of them. What are you afraid of, Lucy?”
For one, he can stop calling me Lucy. It’s making my skin crawl, makes me feel guilty. Makes me jealous. Resentful.
Depressed.
What if I’d seen him at the party first? What if I was the type of girl who had the courage to ask someone like Dash Amado on a date? Would things be different? Would it be me he’s looking at the way he’s looking at Lucy?
Lucy.
She’s not just my friend; she’s my sister. We’re blood, and she will always come first.
Always.
DANTE
Something isn’t right with Lucy.
I can fucking feel it.
Since our date on Friday, nothing is making any freaking sense.
For one, she’s wearing a goddamn turtleneck.
Why is this strange? Because her boobs are always on full display. She’s one of those girls who’s constantly at the baseball house, desperate for attention, letting it all hang out.
I’m a guy, one with a fully functioning set of eyes, and from what Lucy has shown me, she has a fantastic rack—which is why it’s so fucking odd that tonight she’s buried in black cotton up to her chin.
Tonight, her long hair seems longer, windblown and natural. Messy, like she rolled out of bed to come meet me and didn’t spend an hour in the bathroom curling it.
Her perfume, which used to smell like pure gold digger, now has traces of citrus and flowers and vanilla, hitting my nose when she flips that mass of hair over her shoulder.
She looks different tonight, conservative.
She’s barely wearing makeup, just some mascara.
And—obviously—the whole turtleneck thing is confusing as shit.
The black color is stark against her pale skin. That’s another thing throwing me off—the few times I’ve been out with Lucy, her skin has been a warm hue of…well, orange.
This Lucy? She looks like someone I could actually bring home to mi madre.
I shoot a quick glance at the front of her sweater; it might be covering the entire column of her neck, but it’s tight, outlining ample curves I don’t remember her having. Large silver hoops catch the light from the modern chandelier above, her one vanity.
“We can talk more after dinner,” I tell her.
Her chin tips, lips say, “Okay.”
A tentative smile.
We’re quiet while I look at the dinner selections and steal glances at her over my menu. Lucy is staring at hers, biting down on her bottom lip, undecided.
“Need help deciding?”
“I, uh, didn’t realize they had food, so I wasn’t prepared for dinner.”
Annnnd there it is. I swear to God, if she’s one of those girls who eats like a fucking bird—salad with no dressing and a side of water—I’m going to seriously reconsider dating her.
“Did you already eat?”
“No.”
“Are you hungry?”
Her head lifts. Our eyes meet. “I didn’t really come here to eat, but yeah, I am hungry.”
My lip curls. “Let me guess, you’re going to have a salad.”
“Well, let me see.” She lifts the menu and disappears from sight as the waitress approaches and glances between us.
“Are you all set to order, or do you need a few more minutes?”
Lucy reappears from over the giant folded menu. “I’m ready if you are.”
“Ladies first.”
“Okay.” Her index finger trails along the first page’s entrées. “Can I get the filet please, medium rare, with a wedge salad—ranch dressing—and a baked potato with sour cream? And bacon.”
She closes the menu and hands it to the waitress, clasping her hands serenely. Lifts her brows my direction.
Damn, I’m impressed.
“I’ll have the same.” I hand my waitress the menu, mimic Lucy’s pose. “So.”
“So.”
My head tilts and I relax into the hard back of the wooden chair. Across the table, my date does an inventory of me that has nothing to do with physical attraction; oddly, she hasn’t flirted or giggled at me once, another thing that seems…off.
Her eyes scan my broad shoulders—the width earned through hours of busting my ass on the diamond—up my thick neck, landing on my lips. My high cheekbones, the left one with a stitch holding it closed. My expressionless eyes and tired brow.
Her lips part. “Where did the bruises come from?”
“Someone’s bat.”
“I thought catchers wore face masks!”
“We do.”
Those blue eyes go wide. “Have you ever lost a tooth?”
“Yes.” I tap on my teeth. “This front one is fake.”
“On a scale of one to ten, how bad does it hurt to get jacked in the face with a baseball bat?”
That’s an odd way for a girl to put it, but the answer is easy: “Fifteen.”
“What are your plans after college?”
I pause.
We’ve already discussed this, on our first date when she peppered me with questions about my odds of playing professional ball, how soon that was going to be, and if I had an agent.
“The pros.” I drag the words out in a duh tone of voice.
She cringes. “Oh yeah, right. Sorry, I forgot.” But then, “But you have a major, right? What are you falling back on, just in case? What happens if you get hurt?”
No girl has ever asked me that. “If I don’t get drafted, I’ll…” I shift in my chair uncomfortably. Discussing what would happen if I weren’t eligible for the draft isn’t something I normally talk about, not with girls like Lucy, girls who have no real investment in my future other than a meal ticket. “DNR.”
“Department of Natural Resources?”
I blink. “You actually know what that is?”
She shrugs. “My dad likes to fish.”
“What about you?”
“What about me?”
“What are you doing when you graduate?”
“I’ve never told you my major? That is so unlike me.”
Did she just admit she likes talking about herself? I chuckle.
“You’ve told me you’re a fashion major, but never said what you plan on doing with your degree. We didn’t exactly do a lot of chatting on our first few dates.” I shoot her a lazy smile.
“Oh. Right.” Again, she tucks those long locks of hair behind her ear, causing her earrings to shine in the light. “My major is, uh, fashion design.”
Now she’s repeating herself. “You told me that already.”
“Right, sorry.” She avoids my eyes, taking a drink, suddenly fascinated by the heavy burgundy draperies covering the walls. “So, Dash, what’s your real name?”
“Don’t you think you should know if we’re going to give this thing a shot?”
Lucy cringes. “Yes?”
“The fact that you’re asking means you haven’t adequately done your research. Haven’t you tried looking me up at all?”
“I haven’t had time?”
“It’s Dante.”
“Dante,” she repeats quietly to herself with Spanish enunciation. Bites back a smile. “Dante Amado,” she says, articulating my entire name. “Huh.”
“What about Lucy, that short for anything?”
“She’s—I’m, uh, named after our grandmother—my grandmother.” Her head shakes. “Lucille. Lucy is short for Lucille.”
Lucille does sound like someone’s abuelita. The name is unsexy and unfuckable.
We’re interrupted by the busboy refilling our water glasses. “Thank you,” she says with a smile.
I recognize the dude from my environmental law class and give him a nod. “Yeah, thanks.”
For a few moments, we sit in silence, and I feel Lucy sneaking glances. Then, “If you could live in any city, which one would it be?”
This one is a no-brainer. “I’d play for the Rockies.”
My date rolls her eyes. “That’s not what I asked.”
“It’s not?”
“No. I asked if you could live in any city, which one would it be. I didn’t ask where you would play.”
“Oh. Well…” I set down my fork. “No lo sé.” I don’t know.
Lucy tilts her head and studies me, eyes softening. “That much of your future hinges on you getting drafted, huh?”
I raise my head, meeting her eyes. “Yeah.”
Her clear gaze bores into me. “What’s it like?”
“What’s what like?”
“The pressure.”
For a second, I want to tell her that’s a strange fucking statement to make, but then I go quiet and think about it, really sit and think.
She’s right.
It is a lot of pressure, especially since mi familia is depending on me to make something of myself.
All the money my parents sank into a lifelong baseball career that isn’t even an official career yet, that’s nothing but a goddamn hobby if I don’t get drafted.
No one but mi mamá has ever asked me how the pressure makes me feel.
And now Lucy.
This—this right here is why I found myself really fucking liking her last weekend on our date. I think she might actually give a shit.
“It’s heavy.”
I don’t mind saying it, admitting with two words that I have a world of weight crushing down on my shoulders, broad as they may be. It feels…
Whatever.
It hardly matters; my life is mapped out for me, and there’s no getting off the path I’m already treading on.
“So where would you want to live?” Lucy prods again, still wanting an answer. “If you could choose.”
“I don’t know. I’m never thought about it.”
“Well I have—I love the Midwest. I love the change of seasons. I’ve always wanted to live where I could ski in the winter and enjoy the sun in the summer, you know?”
“You love the Midwest? Are you nuts?” I hate everything about it—the rain, the hot, muggy summers. The cold—every damn winter I come close to freezing my balls off.
“You just said you wanted to move to Colorado to play for the Rockies!”
I laugh. “For work!”
Lucy shrugs. “No take-backs.”
The server chooses that moment to appear with our appetizer salads: two plates of fussy lettuce, one tomato, and two cucumbers each. Rabbit food. Irritated at the small portion, I poke at the plate with the tines of my fork.
A soft chuckle has my ears twitching.
“¿Qué es tan gracioso?” What’s so funny? I want to know.
Another laugh. “You. You’re pouting because the salad is so small.”
“So?” I grunt, stabbing some lettuce with my fork and shoving it in my gullet—and just like that, half of it is gone.
“Are you mad because there’s nothing on the plate?”
My answer is a scoff.
“How about I give you whatever I don’t finish?”
This perks me up considerably. “Are you planning on not finishing the salad?”
“No, but I figured the offer would cheer you up.”
It does.
I’m starving, ravenous, and her offer to let me finish her plate? Fucking adorable.
“Hey Lucy?”
“Hmm?”
“Know what I’m going to do?”
“What?”
“I’m going to date the shit out of you.”
7
Amelia
I’m going to date the shit out of you.
That is not good, and now my pits are sweating.
Dante isn’t just eyeballing my salad like he hasn’t eaten in days; he’s staring at me the same way, like he’s trying to figure out what’s different about me all at the same time.
Lucy and I are night and day.
Most people still can’t tell the difference, including our parents, so Dante’s intensity is throwing me off like a curveball. It’s unexpected in the best possible way.
No one has ever been able to tell us apart.
Dash is the opposite of everything I was expecting.
It’s making me…
Jealous.
I’m jealous of my sister.
I knew he’d be handsome, but I didn’t realize he’d be serious, or intuitive. He’s direct and open, and the longer we sit here, the chattier he’s becoming.
I like it.
I like him.
I’m attracted to him, too, which is terrible, because Lucy, Lucy, Lucy.
Because I�
�m here to break up with him, not charm him into another date. Jesus, I’m so bad at this.
When the server brings our entrées, I feel Dante watching me, tracking the movements when I lift my knife. Cut a small piece of steak. Pop it in my mouth and chew.
I’m afraid to look him in the eye, so I stare at the wall behind him. The curtains. The older couple at the table behind us.
Cut another piece, take another bite.
It’s hard work ignoring him.
He’s big and intimidating and sexy.
His gray shirtsleeves are pushed up to his elbows, muscular forearms flexing when he cuts the meat on his plate.
“So what else do you do when you’re not studying fashion?” he enquires. “What do you do for fun?”
I try to channel my sister; these answers are easy. “I like listening to music.”
Oh God, that sounded so lame.
“Listening to music in your free time? What do you do, lie on the bed and stare up at the ceiling?”
A laugh escapes my lips. “Something like that. Um, let me think, what else do I like to do…”
Lucy likes: traveling. Shopping. Getting her nails done. Going for coffee with her sorority sisters.
It sounds so shallow, I’m embarrassed to let the words pass my lips. Shopping and nails and coffee? Ugh.
“I love the stars, and I do a lot of hiking.”
Lucy is going to kill me.
First I slip and start speaking Spanish, and now I’ve gone and told him I love astronomy. Lucy hates it outside, hates the wind and cold weather and snow.
If Dante takes her into the woods, she will throw a conniption fit.
“You know that set of bluffs you can hike to? The one past Coleman Hall?” There’s a road you can take that winds around a huge hill, up and up; once you reach a certain point, you can park your car and climb the rest of the way up to a scenic point that overlooks the entire city. “I like going up there when it’s overcast.”
Team Player Page 60
