Page 5 of The One Night Dash
I can’t help but smile when I see Deacon Moretti—or the Italian, as Paul calls him—who was pushed back to the second line, even though he’s a legend in his own right. Fifteen years in this league, and they put Johnosn in first line. Johnson, who has since been traded, and they brought Hank Marshall up from the farm team to replace him. Hank is also a Lincoln alum. He’s real fucking good, but he’s no Moretti. Hell, I don’t know many who are.
He’s here early, working with Marshall, even though Coach D has him starting over him. Morretti loves the game.
He’s had one hell of a career; he’s been The Times’ sexiest man of the year, but he’s never held the cup. We all want the cup in our hands, but there are a few of us who want it even more for him, and we want to do that before he retires.
“Thanks for the ride, asshat,” Killer says, walking past me.
“Anytime, man, anytime.” I laugh.
TWO
NOELLE
It’s not oftenI close up Pembrooke Books before my scheduled hours, but today, it’s unavoidable. Outside, East 78this brushed in late-autumn gold. The afternoon sun filters through bare branches, glinting off brownstone windows like a thousand little hearth fires. Someone, somewhere, is already roasting chestnuts—the smell tangles in the air with fallen leaves, damp stone, and the promise of roasted turkey just a week away.
Across the street, Crosby’s Bean works its usual magic. The scent drifts over—espresso, toasted almond syrup, and that hint of chocolate that makes you believe dessert should always come in a cup. Add in the faint spice of cinnamon and clove, and it’s basically Thanksgiving pie disguised as caffeine. My willpower lasts about as long as the leaves on the sycamores before I cave and cross.
The bell over their door jingles as I step in, and there he is behind the counter.
Elliot.
He’s tall, lean, always wearing some obscure band tee under his apron. He’s got the kind of messy blond hair that saysI’mtoo busy being brilliant to care, and a smile that’s crooked but not so much that it can’t turn every page in my romance section blush-pink.
“Afternoon, Noelle. The usual?” he asks, already reaching for the almond syrup.
“Yes, please,” I say, leaning on the counter without being obvious about it, but I’m exhausted. “I need something to sip while I commit financial crimes on a dress I’ll wear once.”
His eyebrow quirks. “Ah, wedding?”
“Unfortunately.”
He grins, setting the cup on the counter. “Then I’ll add an extra shot. You’ll need the strength.”
I pass him a bill and tuck the change into the tip jar, our fingers brushing for the briefest second. Just like the meet-cute in my most current WIP. Unlike the book, Elliot doesn’t make reference tomy beanthat has my knees weakening. I leave with myiced almond mocha,condensation beading on the plastic lid, and step back onto the sidewalk.
Half a block down,Mr. Hanleyis walking his dachshund,Sir Biscuit, who’s wearing a cranberry plaid sweater.
“Looking sharp, Biscuit,” I say, giving him a scratch behind the ears before straightening up to smile at his owner.
“Where you off to, Miss Pembrooke?” Mr. Hanley asks, his voice gravelly in a way that makes you want to listen.
“Dress shopping. Wish me luck.”
“You don’t need it,” he says, and for a second, I believe him.
As I keep walking toward Madison, I think of Sofie, Nalani, and Claudia, my besties. They all offered to come with me today, but I couldn’t do it. Not yet. This is the test run—the trial by fire, where I figure out what I’m wearing before the group commentary starts. They’d mean well, but I know myself. I’d feel too seen, too pinned under their shared excitement, when deep down, I’m … not. At. All.
I cross Madison, passing the glossy window displays of places Lauren would die to be seen leaving—all beige mannequins in beige dresses for beige women who somehow never spill wine on anything. I keep going until I hitDesigner Revival, the vintage boutique I’ve been eyeing for weeks but never had the excuse to step into.
The door gives a soft chime as I push it open, and the air smells faintly of cedar and perfume that’s clung to silk for decades. Everything is color-coded, fabrics swishing against each other on brass racks, sequins catching the light from a vintage chandelier overhead.
“Looking for something special?” a woman with a tape measure around her neck asks, appearing from behind a rack of cocktail dresses.
“A dress. Wedding guest. Preferably something that won’t make me feel like a placeholder.”
She tilts her head, studying me for a beat. “Evening or day?”
“Evening, and very upscale.” I wave my hand up and down my fit. “Not my typical.”
