“Ready,” I say while exhaling. I’m pretty sure I took less than twenty minutes to get ready.

When he swivels his head, I catch the surprise in his eyes as he takes me in. Slowly, deliberately, he scans me, starting with my legs and working all the way up to my face where he meets my eyes with an approving smile.

He sets his water down on the coffee table and stands. “You look great, Kinny.”

I do a weird curtsey-bow thing. “Thank you. So where are we going?”

“There was this place Linc was telling me about the other day. Has some vegan options for you, and some non-vegan options for me.”

“Are you going to get a slab of meat?” I wince.

He sighs and takes my hand in his. “I wouldn’t make you watch me eat steak, you should know that by now. There’s a pasta dish I want to try.”

Feeling guilty, I say, “If you wanted to get steak, you know you could.”

He squeezes my hand. “And watch my date turn green for the rest of the dinner? I’m good.”

Date?

Am I missing something? Surely he just means a friendly date, right?

Wait . . . of course he does. He’s taken me out many times before, even when he was dating Jamie back in high school. He’s calling me his date, because that’s the kind of guy he is. Thoughts have been weird and jumbled in my head. I’m overthinking every little thing he says or does. I’m distracted by his handsome-ness and kind ways of taking care of me, protecting me.

I need to get my head on straight.

Friends.

We are friends. Repeat that to yourself over and over again. He’s not interested in you. You are friends.

He’s always held your hand.

He’s always been touchy-feely.

He’s always smelled this good . . .

God, he smells so fucking good.

“Ready?” he asks, tugging on my arm.

“Oh, yup.” I nervously laugh. “Ready.”

He’s your friend. He’s your friend.

“Good.” He walks me out the door, still holding my hand, locks up, and we head to the elevator, just as the door on the other end of the hall opens and Joan pops out with a loaf of bread in her hand.

“Oh, there you are, dear.” She waddles over to us and holds out the bread. “This is for you, to apologize for Dudley’s behavior. I asked him what he was thinking and do you know what he said? He told me he was nervous, because you were so beautiful. How silly is that? Then he goes and stands you up. I told him that’s no way to treat a young woman. I told him he better reach out to you and make things right, because you two would be perfect together.” Joan says all this while Maddox holds my hand, as if the giant six-foot-three brick wall isn’t standing right next to me.

“Oh well, you don’t have to apologize for him,” I say, feeling awkward and taking the loaf.

“It’s the least I could do. He really is a darling, you’ll see. I told him to call you this week. I do hope you give him a chance.” Finally, she glances to the right and catches sight of Maddox. She slowly looks up until her eyes meet him . . . then they sharpen. “Who are you?”

Clearing my throat and dropping my hand from Maddox’s, I say, “Joan, this is Maddox. He’s your neighbor, my friend I’ve been staying with.”

“How do I know you?” She taps her chin. “You have been in the news.” She takes in his dark appearance and then says, “I hope not for drugs.”

Good God.

Before I can stop myself, I say, “Joan, this is Maddox Paige, the number-one pitcher for the Chicago Rebels.” I feel Maddox tense next to me, and I realize my slip-up. He doesn’t like to be known but come on. How stealth can he really be in his building?

“The Rebels?” Joan shakes her head and then holds up her fist as if she’s part of a cult. “Bobbie for life.”

I still, wince, and hold my breath as I look over to Maddox, who lightly chuckles and pats Joan on the shoulder. “Shame. If you were Rebel at heart you’d have celebrated a World Series win last season, possibly again this season.”

Joan’s eyes widen, and I hold back a snort. Maddox did not just say that to an elderly woman.

Silence falls between us and I try to think of something to say, anything to squash the rising tension between us. Joan beats me to it when she says, “I like your spunk, kid.” She points to the loaf in my hand. “Feel free to have some as well. It’s vegan, in case you were wondering. Have a good night.” She gives us a wave and then takes off.

I glance up at Maddox who holds the key of the apartment to me. “Go stick the loaf in the apartment. I’ll wait.” Then he crosses his arm and leans against the hall wall, eyes studying me.

What I wouldn’t give to know what’s going on in that head of his. Is he mad? Entertained? Curious to find out more about Joan?

Either way, I stuff the loaf in the apartment and meet up with Maddox again, but this time as we wait for the elevator, he doesn’t hold my hand.

Chapter Twelve

MADDOX

I roll over in bed and glance at the time on my phone. One thirty.

What the hell is she doing?

My plan tonight was to dive deeper into our relationship. Take Kinsley out, hold her hand, show her that even though we had a fight, we were still very much the same people, maybe even more to each other.

At least she is to me.

Yeah, that fight hurt like a bitch, and she said something I will never forget. I can still hear her words in my head. The fear she portrayed. It vibrated to the very marrow of my bones, completely extinguishing my anger and instead, filling me up with my own fear . . . that I would lose her.

I remember the way Kinsley looked at me when I slipped through her window, a fresh shiner on my face—something I blamed on baseball practice that day. She knew the truth. The concern and worry in her eyes are imprinted in my brain today, but until now, I hadn’t remembered it. Now that I have, it scares me, because I don’t ever want to see that look in her face again.

And I saw it.

I knew things had to change. Not only did it scare me to see her so upset, it also made me realize one thing: I love this girl more than just a friend. I think I always have but never let myself consider it until the other night, when I thought I could lose her. That I could scare her so much with my anger, with my temper, that she’d walk out the door. Leave me.

It was a fucking reality check and it’s why I apologized, why I brought her into my bed, why I held her hand all night. I needed to make sure she wasn’t going to leave, that she’d stay with me.

It’s why I wanted to go out with her, tonight, but that was ruined by Joan and her incessant need to force Dudley on Kinsley. I desperately wanted to ask her if she’d go on another date with him. If she was going to forgive the jackass who stood her up . . . because she was too pretty? What a load of shit. Don’t get me wrong. Kinsley is drop-dead gorgeous, but no guy who poses while holding his chin for a picture is going to say he’s too scared to go out with a girl because she’s too pretty. Chin holders are the type who try to pelvic thrust their way into a girl’s pants on the dance floor. Not walk away with his tail tucked into his balls because the girl is too pretty.

I don’t buy that one fucking bit.

But it seemed like Kinsley did. Who really fucking knows? I was too nervous to ask her, to hear the truth. So it threw me off for the rest of the night. I didn’t act the same, I didn’t talk about the things I wanted to talk about, and I didn’t end up accomplishing anything besides being awkward around her.

And when we got back home and I told her to sleep in my bed, which she refused, so while I brushed my teeth, I had to listen to her tape Clyde back together once again. The fucking thing. I swear; one of these days, I’m just going to toss the damn cot in the trash without her knowing. Teach her a goddamn lesson.

Yeah, I might be bitter that she didn’t want to share a bed again, that she’d rather sleep on a twenty-plus-year-old cot than next to me. But now that it’s one thirty and I can hear her rummaging around out there, I’m trying to figure out what the hell is going on.

I toss the blankets to the side and trudge out of my bedroom, my hair falling over my forehead in a mess, and my eyes barely receptive to the light in the living room.

I find her sitting cross-legged on the couch, her notebook in front of her, Scotch tape and scissors on her left, a men’s GQ on the right, and her hand feverously scribbling in her notebook.

“What are you doing?”

Her head flies up as she clutches her chest. “Mother effer, you scared me.”

“Sorry.” I scratch my stomach and I watch her eyes follow my hand and then back up my body . . . slowly. Her perusal throws me for a loop as I try to think about why I’m out here. In my boxer briefs. And nothing else.

She beats me to it when she says, “Was I making too much noise?”

“A little.”

She winces, and the cute scrunch of her nose wakes me up even more. “Sorry. I thought I was being stealthy quiet, apparently not.”

“You know it’s past one thirty in the morning, right?”

Her eyes widen. “Is it? I thought it was only eleven.”