“You are such a San Francisco historian,” I tell him. “And I’m into that.”

  “Had a feeling you might be.”

  I eye the slide, and a kernel of worry digs into my chest. “Are you even allowed to do this, contractually?”

  He presses his finger to his lips. “Shhh. Keep my secret, Erin.”

  I pretend to zip my lips as he sets down a piece of cardboard. “Ladies first,” he says.

  “You want me to die first, clearly,” I tease.

  “Ha. More like I want you to have the first slide-gasm.”

  I can’t resist. I step a little closer, giving him a smile. “Slide-gasm. Nice. Very nice.”

  His eyes darken for a few seconds, lingering on my lips. “There’s more where that came from.”

  “I bet,” I say, loving his flirt even though I know I shouldn’t.

  Instead of indulging in more of that temptation, I park my booty on the cardboard and fly.

  I scream in glee.

  Soon, I’m at the bottom, bouncing up, breathless and thrilled, but thinking quickly. Grabbing my phone from my front pocket, I turn on the camera and snap a shot of the starting pitcher as he careens down the slide, his face shining with joy in the twilight.

  He hits the bottom, jumps up, and thrusts his arms in the air. “Slide-gasm for this guy,” he says.

  I lift a hand to high-five. We smack palms. “I felt it too,” I say playfully, but I don’t let go of his hand.

  He doesn’t let go either. Instead, he curls his fingers tighter, wrapping his hand around mine. My breath comes faster. My pulse surges.

  And we stay like that for a few more seconds, our gazes caught.

  I squeeze his hand. This is all I’ll allow—this little touch after the fun we had.

  He rubs his thumb along my wrist. “You liked it?” he asks.

  “So much,” I say, but I’m talking about him too.

  A couple weeks later, I make a plan for the Filbert Steps.

  I like climbs, and since Sullivan works his body for a living, he can handle it.

  I tell him as much in our text.

  Erin: Next friend date—all the stairs!

  * * *

  Sullivan: Bring it on.

  * * *

  Erin: You’re known for your love of stairs. That’s what your journals told me. Wink, wink.

  * * *

  Sullivan: They were right. There are no stairs I can’t handle.

  * * *

  Erin: Same here.

  * * *

  Sullivan: Damn, woman, you do like to throw down.

  * * *

  Erin: Confession: I love stair workouts.

  * * *

  Sullivan: Confession: I. Do. Too.

  We meet on a Sunday, tackling the long set of stairs up to Coit Tower. They’re perfect for exercise, and maybe that’ll take my mind off the kisses I can’t have with Sullivan. It should help my focus on keeping my heart rate up.

  We wind our way through the neighborhood, heading for the steps.

  He takes the first step, then turns to me. “Hey, are we still off the record?”

  I roll my eyes. “Dude, we’ve been off the record for a while.”

  “Good. Then I’ll tell you officially I wasn’t supposed to go adult sliding a couple weeks ago. It’s against my contract,” he whispers.

  My mouth forms an O. “Just as I suspected. And you are so naughty.”

  “I’m an outlaw, Erin,” he teases as we climb. “Good thing we’re always off the record.”

  “Since my phone and I did witness you living on the wild side,” I tease, patting my back pocket.

  “But I trust you with my secrets. Especially the ones that could bite me in the ass.”

  Too hard to resist. I peer around at him, like I’m checking out his rear. “You do have a cute ass, Sullivan.”

  He growls lightly, and the sound sends tingles along my skin, especially when he murmurs, “So do you.”

  Soon, the steps turn into wooden stairs, then we reach a street sign for Napier Lane, a quiet block.

  And it’s . . . gorgeous, bursting with gardens and flowers and plants. “This is like a hamlet in the city,” I say as we wander past several little cottages then along more gardens.

  A bird squawks in a nearby tree. I point to the green-and-orange-winged creature. “I love the parrots of Telegraph Hill,” I say.

  He smiles at me, sunlight casting a dreamy afternoon glow across his handsome face. “Funny, I’ve heard about them, but never learned the story.”

  I square my shoulders, pride suffusing me. “I can tell you. Want to know?”

  “Tell me a story, Erin,” he says in that sultry tone that sends sparks down my chest.

  “The parrot flock started in 1990 when a pair of small cherry-headed conures escaped and flew here.”

  “Where’d they escape from?”

  I shrug. “Who knows? That’s what I love about the story. No one truly knows, but everyone has a theory where the parrots came from.”

  I toss out some of my ideas:

  Alcatraz.

  Pier 39.

  The Apple headquarters.

  Sullivan jumps in, suggesting the Sutro Baths, Google, and Danielle Steel’s house.

  We wander down the block, trading tales about the wild parrots in the middle of a city.

  “It’s a parrot jungle in the metropolis,” he remarks. “A conundrum—completely what you don’t expect.”

  That tugs on the restless part of my mind, the part that craves deeper stories. “See? That’s what I’d love to report on too. Finding the unexpected tale. The quirky little detail in a story that makes you sit up and take notice.”

  “Like when a baseball play doesn’t go the way you think. When the shortstop appears out of nowhere and is suddenly fielding a ball on the first baseline,” he muses.

  “Or when a pitcher is good enough to be the designated hitter too, and he belts in the game-winning home run. Why is he so good at the plate too? Turns out he had to learn to hit, and if he hadn’t, he never would have been able to play in his home country,” I say.

  We trade on and off like that, and then we do it again a few weeks later when we check out the Crissy Field stairs leading to the Golden Gate Bridge. On our next outing, we visit the Instagrammable tiled steps on Sixteenth Avenue that take us to a food truck where we devour tacos and talk more and more.

  Like that, we discover the city, and we become better friends each weekend and on weeknights too—texting and talking.

  Soon, fall turns into winter, and in January, our friend dates become more like lunches and dinners.

  One night in early February, we head to an Italian restaurant in North Beach, and when he pulls out my chair, it feels more like a date-date.

  And that feels risky. But the more time I spend with him, the more I’m embracing the risk.

  The more I’m wanting something beyond friendship.

  7

  Sullivan

  If I was grading myself, I’d give me an A.

  Maybe that makes me cocky.

  But I’m pretty sure it’s accurate.

  I’ve been an excellent student in the subject of Erin Madison.

  And I’ve enjoyed every second of our friend dates. The stairs, the slides, the meals, the walks.

  The wanderings.

  Tonight at dinner is as good a time as any to let her in on a secret.

  After we order and the waiter pours the wine, I offer my glass in a toast. “To friendship,” I say, though that’s not the secret.

  “To friendship,” she echoes, her voice warm, her eyes sparkling with happiness.

  Exactly how I feel when I’m with her.

  I take a drink of the wine, and she does the same, then licks her lips.

  I narrow my eyes, humming my approval. “Mmm. You look good doing that.”

  She dips her head, blushing. “So do you when you do that,” she says when she looks at me again.

  My chest heats from the compliment. “Glad you think so.”

  “But then, I find you attractive all the time,” she says.

  And yup, I’m hot everywhere now. “Can I tell you a secret?”

  “Give it up, Sullivan,” she says with a naughty twinkle in her eyes. I fucking love how she goes from sweet to dirty in a heartbeat.

  “I love to read romance novels,” I say, squaring my shoulders, owning it.

  She laughs lightly, setting a hand on my forearm. A shiver rushes over my skin. Damn, I like it so much when she touches me.

  “No one knows?” she asks.

  “I keep it to myself. But I thought you’d enjoy knowing it.”

  “I do like that. I like all the details of you,” she says.

  And I am a certified goner for Erin Madison.

  “Maybe someday you can do a story on Captain Romance,” I say, then scoff at myself. “I call myself that. In my head.”

  She leans back in her chair, stifling a smile. “That’s too cute.”

  Growling, I pretend to be mad. “Don’t make me regret telling you.”

  “Hey! I like cute,” she says, her eyes holding mine.

  “So do I,” I say, and it feels like we’re talking about each other, about these feelings blooming between us, this friendship that’s teetering on the verge of romance.

  I hope.

  I hope so damn much.

  “Tell me your favorite romances,” she says, and I do, sharing the details of some of the stories I’ve devoured.

  “I detect a theme,” Erin says, tapping her chin.

  “And what’s that?”

  “They all have forbidden love, but they end in a happily ever after.”

  That’s the great thing about stories—you can write the endings however you want.

  But this is real life. I can imagine a romance with her—and maybe I am—but that doesn’t bring me any closer to it happening.

  When dinner ends, we walk through North Beach again, and I imagine doing this in a month, a few more months, a year.

  Yes, I want to be friends with her.

  I definitely want her in my life.

  But I’m falling for her.

  She’s in my head, in my life, and in my heart.

  Like we did that night in October, we meander, talking about the coming season. We talk about my friend Shane’s trade from the New York Comets to the San Francisco Dragons, where he’ll be playing with my buddy Drew, their catcher. Then we talk more about her job, and how she still wants to tell bigger stories. But we move on from work, chatting about music and friends as Stella’s Comedy Attic comes into view.

  She stops in front of it, checking out the marquee and the list of upcoming acts. “Matilda Barker is going to be here this month,” she says, pointing to the list of comics. “She’s fabulous, and all my girlfriends love her. Clementine, Frankie, Nova . . .”

  “You should go with them,” I say, with some flirt in my tone.

  “You should go too,” she says, equally playful.

  “Should we pretend to be surprised if we see each other?”

  “We both love surprises,” she says. Then she tilts her head, considering. “So, we’ll act surprised.”

  “Great. If I run into you, I’ll be shocked.”

  “It’s a plan.”

  We turn away from the club, and I walk her home. My gaze keeps drifting to her hand, and the desire to hold it deepens, tunnels into my chest.

  Drives me on.

  “Can I hold your hand?” I ask, hopeful, but determined too.

  She steals a glance at me, almost as if this moment is forbidden. “I was hoping you would.”

  I reach out, thread my fingers through hers, and murmur, “Nice.”

  “Very, very nice,” she says, shooting me a sexy look.

  Holding hands has never felt this right, or this intimate.

  When we reach her home, I’m full of hope, wanting this night to be different, this chance to be the one.

  It’s time to tell her more. To lay my heart on the line.

  On the front steps of her building, I imagine I’m heading out to the mound.

  Determined, focused, ready.

  The outcome of the game rests on my shoulders, and so does my future with Erin.

  I draw a deep breath and then jump. “Erin, I don’t want to put you in an uncomfortable situation, but I just want to tell you that I love being friends with you, and I also would love to take you out. On a regular basis. Not like a one-time thing.” I go on, buoyed by the sparks in her blue eyes. “I want to be your man. Your boyfriend, if you’ll have me. I’m not asking for a one-night stand, or a one-and-done date. I’m asking for you. And I know all the risk falls on you, but I’ll be here for you to navigate those pitfalls. I’ll be by your side however you need me, if you’ll take that chance.”

  Her shoulders shudder slightly, maybe with happiness. Her hand flies to her mouth, then she lets go. “Oh God,” she gasps in wonder. “Really?”

  “Yes. Does that surprise you?” I ask with a laugh.

  “It just makes me happy.”

  This seems like a chance worth taking. “You make me happy, Erin. And this whole wander-through-the-city thing feels like it could be you and me. Think about it. Think about us, okay?” I ask, and I just hope.

  I hope so damn hard.

  “I think about you all the time, Sullivan,” she confesses.

  Then, she’s wildly fast. She rises up on tiptoe, and I expect a chaste kiss like I’ve given her many times before. But instead, she goes straight for my mouth—dives right in and kisses me.

  It’s soft at first, an exploration, her soft lips gliding across mine. I let her lead because that’s what she seems to want and because I’m not entirely sure where we’re going. But this woman knows her mind. And evidently her body too. She inches closer, a mere heartbeat away, then she sets her hands on my face.

  Ah, hell.

  I reach for her hips, jerk her against me, and explore her mouth. My tongue skates against hers, our sighs mingling, and the one-time impossibility of us falls away as we kiss against the night. In the span of these delicious seconds, I’m imagining new scenarios for us, possibilities where this could be real.

  When she breaks the kiss, I wait for her to take the lead again.

  “I had to know,” she says, a teasing light in her eyes.

  “Had to know what?”

  “If kissing you was as worth it as I’d hoped it would be.”

  I laugh. “And? Conclusion?”

  “It feels like the start of a new story,” she says. “I kind of want to spend all night with you. But I think I know what would happen if I did.”

  “What would happen?”

  “I’d do all the naughty things I can’t do quite yet.”

  “When, then?” I ask. I’m desperate, but thrilled, waiting on the edge of the world for her.

  “I promise I’ll tell you soon.”

  “Soon” comes by way of a text a week later, shortly before Valentine’s Day.

  Erin: I’m going to Stella’s with my friends. I’ll act surprised.

  * * *

  Sullivan: I’ll do the same.

  It feels like the end of our friend dates and the beginning of a real one.

  8

  Sullivan

  My buddy Shane texts me that he’ll be arriving in the city the next day. Since he’s now a Dragon, he’ll be moving here before we all take off for spring training.

  Sullivan: Want a welcome parade? I’ll see if I can round up your biggest fans. Wait, that’s no one.

  * * *

  Shane: Guess I’ll settle for a pint, then, with my mates. NOT YOU.

  * * *

  Drew jumps into the text fray.

  * * *

  Drew: I’ll pretend to be your bud, Shakespeare, if you pay for the drinks.

  * * *

  Shane: What a wildly generous offer.

  After that, we get around to planning a welcome-back-to-town night that just happens to fall on February 14th. I mention the comedy club, but the day before the event, I suggest a concert too, knowing Shane will say no, since he’s staying away from the club scene.

  It’s all a ruse.

  On Valentine’s Day, the three of us head to Stella’s, catching up on the new Marvel flick releasing next week, and discussing whether we want to see it or not during spring training, which leads to a debate on the best superheroes, since we live for arguments.

  It’s good to see the guys, but my mind keeps jumping ahead as we walk to the club.

  To Erin.

  To tonight.

  To what might happen, and whether we’ll indulge in another kiss or maybe more.

  Please let it be more.

  Once we’re seated in Stella’s and the headliner takes the stage, my gaze catches on a table not far away.

  There she is—the woman I spent so many days and nights with during the off-season.

  Time spent getting to know her.

  Getting to like her.

  Falling for her.

  As friends.

  And now, I’m determined to be so much more than that.

  We could be everything.

  I just want to be worth the risk for her.

  Matilda Barker strolls across the stage, mic in hand. “This last date I went on was great. When I said sit, they sat. When I said come . . .” She stops, smiling coyly. “Oh, please. It happens that way in romance novels. When the man goes all alpha commanding in bed and says, ‘Come for me.’” Matilda rolls her eyes. “And the woman’s like, ‘Oh yes, yes, yes.’ As if that works.”