Page 57 of Playboy Pitcher
“Are you willing to take the risk?”
“Fine,” she says, tucking that rich teal hair behind one ear. “I guess one meal in public won’t kill me.”
This time, my smile is genuine.
A gesture she doesn’t return.
Spinning around in a huff, she stomps back toward the main office. Feeling a little victorious, I twist around and give Kyle and Tuck two thumbs-up. In response, they start humping the air.
Which is precisely the moment Willow turns back around. “But I get to pick the place.”
Chapter Eighteen
Eyeing me curiously,Ben fights an amused smirk as he lifts his beer mug to his mouth. “I have to admit, when you said you wanted to pick the place, I sure as hell didn’t expect this.”
That makes two of us.
It’s not like I intentionally set out to circle back to the scene of the crime. Sappy sentimentality isn’t in my nature. So, when Ben picked me up at my father’s sprawling estate and requested my destination, no one was more shocked than me at what came out of my mouth.
“Therein lies the problem. You’re an iron-willed masochist.”
Maybe Emma has a point. Because looking around at the Pepto-Bismol pink coated walls and flamingo-shaped bar stools, I’m starting to question my own sanity.
What The Flockis putting it mildly.
Raising my own mug, I motion around the bar. “It has a certain…charm.”
“Uh-huh. Five days ago, you called it a cesspool of sluts and indigestion.”
“Five days ago, I walked out of here thinking I’d dump my father’s parting gift and never see you again.” Setting my beer on the table, I swipe my hair away from my face. “Things change.”
He doesn’t respond, but I don’t expect him to. I’m sure meeting me didn’t factor into his plans either. Spring Training doesn’t usually involve marrying a virtual stranger and committing fraud.
Instead of fighting the awkward silence, I let it fester like the masochist Emma claims me to be and take stock of the capacity crowd. No Flocks Given is apparently the place to be tonight. Patrons stand shoulder to shoulder, laughing and singing while spilling drinks on each other.
That’s right,singing.
Of all the nights to return to Flamingo Road, I chose karaoke night.
If Hell resides on earth, I’m currently wading in its pink infested waters.
And Satan is a drunk asshole with a beer belly and a mullet intent on desecrating the entire lineup of Garth Brooks’s greatest hits.
“At least now I know,” Ben muses, drawing my attention away from the flashing disco lights on the stage.
“Know what?”
“The reason why you don’t date pitchers.” He grins, those damn dimples popping out again. The ones causing a rush of warmth between my thighs. “Remember? It’s the last thing you said to me before tearing out of this place like your ass was on fire.”
“Yeah, about that, I’m—”
He holds up a hand. “I wasn’t fishing for an apology, Willow. I was pissed at the time, but I get it. Once you touch fire and get burned, you learn not to stick your hand in a flame. I don’t blame you.”
I smirk. “You were pissed the next day.”
“Rightfully so. You hid who you were. Plus, you were a bitch,” he deadpans, lifting his beer.
Placing both hands over my chest, I let out a dramatic gasp. When he rolls his eyes, I laugh and relent. “Fine, you’re right; I was a bitch. But it’s only because I knew what I was walking into. Come on, I had to go in there with both guns blazing, or I’d be ripped apart.” Folding my arm on the table, I lean forward. “I’d already touched fire, remember? That locker room wasn’t just a flame, Ben. It was a damn inferno.”
