With a contented sigh, I raise a glass at The Spotted Zebra, toasting toward Zane and Declan. “I hate to say I told you so,” I begin, lifting my bourbon, neat, high.

  Declan rolls his eyes. “You don’t hate saying that at all. You love it. No—you relish it.”

  Zane keeps quiet. He knows the truth—that I wish I’d been wrong.

  I wish I’d lost the bet.

  I wish I had a boyfriend.

  Okay, fine. I’m delighted that Declan and Zane are each donating one hundred thousand dollars to the charities of my choice. I picked a couple of local animal rescues that help senior dogs find homes, and I chose a homeless shelter because my mom is passionate about volunteer work with the homeless.

  “May dogs and people find homes,” I say, then I clink my tumbler to theirs and I knock back some bourbon that burns my chest.

  “I was so sure you’d be locked up,” Declan says, shaking his head.

  Yeah, for a while there, I was pretty sure too. But here I am. Single AF at the end of the season, and my buds are making good on the bet.

  Win some, lose some.

  We drink, play a round of pool, and shoot the shit about next season.

  “I can’t wait for spring training to start, and for another shot at the World Series,” I say, taking a shot at the eight ball. I sink it and win the game.

  It’s a victory, but it’s not the one I want.

  I go home alone, where my suitcase waits by the door because I leave first thing tomorrow morning for Rafe’s kickoff event in New York.

  The next night, I give Charlie a video tour of the plush luxury suite where Rafe’s company put me up at The Luxe on Park Avenue. Standing in the middle of a suite that’s probably bigger than most New York apartments, I pan the phone screen to the right then to the left.

  Charlie gawks back at me over FaceTime. “Dude, does your room actually have two king-size beds?”

  I grin at the ridiculousness of this place. “Yes. Apparently, fancy people need two beds,” I say, then shrug. “Who knew?”

  “You can wake up every hour and switch,” he suggests.

  I flop down on one mattress, pop up, and jump to the other one. “Yep, great idea,” I say.

  “Take me to the john,” Charlie says. “I bet it’s one of those crazy rich people’s bathrooms,” he says.

  Like Rafe has at his home.

  Rafe’s rainfall shower made me want to spend the whole night there with him. He made me want to spend the night there with him.

  But forget the shower images. I’ve spent the last month or so swatting images of Rafe out of my mind. The bedroom ones, but also all the other ones. Our breakfast at the Ferry Building. Our dinner at his place. Our conversation at The West House. The phone calls we had. Dirty dancing with him.

  How is it possible that I fell for the guy in a few damn weeks?

  Entirely possible. He opened up to me and demanded honesty in return. I gave it to him and fell for the fucker.

  Once again, I try to stay in the moment as I show Charlie the luxurious bathroom with a sunken tub and shower the size of a bedroom. He whistles in appreciation, then I return to the living room and sink down on a plush ruby-red couch.

  “Dude, I want to grow up to be an underwear model,” he says.

  “Hey! I’m a ballplayer who happens to model underwear.”

  He scoffs. “Semantics. Anyway, this company loves you.”

  “You’re telling me. They’re flying me to Richmond tomorrow on a private jet so I don’t miss Mom’s birthday.” I blow on my fingers, too hot to handle.

  “Can I join you?”

  I laugh. “I thought you were taking off today?”

  “I will take the train to New York tomorrow if I can hop on the private jet with you.”

  “I can ask, if you want.”

  His grin lights up. “Pretty please. Also, you’re not doing anything to dissuade me from my ambition to be an underwear model.”

  “Nope. You’re going to stay in school and study engineering.”

  “I could be an engineer who happens to model underwear,” he deadpans.

  Smartass. Can’t think where he picked that up.

  “Anyway,” he says, “enjoy the suite, Gun.” But instead of hanging up, he stares at me thoughtfully, tilting his head. “You doing okay? You still bummed about the playoffs?”

  I sit up and try to shed my general malaise. I didn’t realize it was so obvious. “No. I’m over it. I’m already focused on next season. Working out already.”

  “I’m glad to hear it’s not getting you down. You just seem a little . . . pensive.”

  No shit.

  But I don’t want to burden my brother with what’s on my mind. He needs to focus on school, not on his big brother’s man trouble.

  “I’m all good. But I better put on my charm for the party,” I say. “I can’t wait to see you tomorrow, and then for our big trip.”

  I’m ridiculously excited to take my family on a vacation. We leave in a little over a week. I rented a bungalow on the beach, treating them to the kind of family vacation we never had growing up. I’ll have to work while I’m there—just a photo shoot—but then I can spend time kicking back and relaxing with those I love.

  Thanks to Boyfriend Material and Rafe Rodman for making it all possible.

  We hang up, and I check out my reflection in the mirror. Black slacks, a deep, wine-red shirt, black wingtips. I look sharp, but Charlie’s right—I’m too damn pensive.

  I wish I could stop thinking about Rafe, and our texts, and the way he’d checked in during the playoffs.

  Most of all, I wish I could stop wondering if those texts from London meant anything.

  I sigh, annoyed that I’m wondering again.

  He won’t even show up tonight.

  I’ve been down this tantalizing path before at the photo shoot. Fool me once and all.

  I’ll focus on what I have, not what I lost. I’ve got a family to take care of, friends I cherish, and a good gig with a great ball club. For a few weeks, I had a sexy, sinful, indulgent affair with a brilliant, caring, intense, dominating, passionate man. I got what I wanted out of it. I explored who I am after dark.

  The game is over. This is my life now without him.

  The event is at the nearby Invitation Hotel in Gramercy Park. From the street, I crane my neck to drink in the sleek, understated elegance of the black and white skyscraper. Inside, I snap mental pics of the lobby with its plush, jewel-colored divans and Piet Mondrian-style artwork on the walls. Mom would love this place.

  I head for the elevator and push the call button. As the doors open and I step in, someone comes behind me to catch the same lift. I turn to see Finn Michaels, the sports journalist, dressed to the nines in black slacks and a crisp, dark blue shirt, a tailored jacket, and no tie.

  “Gunnar Ford,” he says in a cool, smooth voice. “Good to see you.”

  I squint. I didn’t realize Finn knew me. We’ve never talked. But he’s the kind of guy who knows everyone. I’m also not sure where he’s from – is that a hint of an English accent or is he just Park Avenue posh? “Hi, Finn,” I say, a little wary.

  He must sense it, because when the elevator doors close, he quips, “Don’t worry. This elevator ride will be off the record.”

  I laugh, but I’m not sure what to say to someone who breaks the biggest, most important stories in the biz. “Are you going to the Rafe Rodman kickoff event?” I ask.

  “I am. I find it’s good to be where the key players are,” he says.

  “Does that mean you’re crashing it?” I ask in the same light tone.

  “Me? Never. I’m always invited,” he says, then winks. “Sometime soon, we’ll need to chat about the business.”

  I doubt that’ll happen, but I say sure, and when the doors slide open on the eighth floor, I let him exit first. He’s fast, walking ahead of me at a determined pace down a long, carpeted hallway.

  I turn into the event ballroom, and . . .

  Whoa.

  I’m everywhere, projected onto the walls, and damn, I look good in Rafe’s designs. But I’m just one model. Images cover the room.

  Holy shit.

  Rafe’s company has got it going on. This is one hell of a body positive campaign, and I had no idea. There’s a model with plenty of padding around the waist, a guy who’s a beanpole, a dude with a dad bod.

  Sweet.

  They’re every color and kind of man with one thing in common. They look sexy as fuck in Rafe Rodman underwear.

  You do you, indeed.

  As I admire the display, I catch sight of a familiar face. My buddy Tanner is here, and he strides over to me and claps my back.

  “We meet again,” he says.

  I glance at the walls. “Why are you not up there? Oh, wait. They wanted me,” I say.

  He rolls his dark eyes. “Don’t you worry about me. I have plenty of partnerships.”

  “So you’re here to see my hotness. I get it.”

  He laughs. “I came here because it’s the place to be,” he says, and the comment strikes me as similar to what Finn said.

  I spot the intrepid reporter chatting with a gray-haired man in a suit, probably a front-office type. Tanner follows my gaze, and I can tell when he reaches Finn by the way the air rushes out of him.

  “What’s the story with Finn Michaels?” I ask, narrowing my eyes at my friend.

  Tanner tenses for a few seconds, then shrugs. “No idea. That guy is . . . intense.”

  There is a story there, I’m sure, but no one’s sharing it tonight.

  Theresa sails over to me, decked out in a gold sequined dress that shows off her toned arms. “Let’s have a drink next time I’m here,” I tell Tanner, so I can focus on Theresa.

  “Sounds like a plan,” he answers, then circulates through the crowd.

  I turn to the lady, dropping a kiss onto her cheek. “You look gorgeous,” I tell her, giving her an approving look from head to toe.

  She squeezes my arm. “And you look fantastic. I have some bloggers and influencers I want to introduce you to.”

  “I can’t wait,” I say with a smile. “But, quick question—I wondered if there’s any chance my little brother can hitch a ride on the plane with me tomorrow? If that’s too much, no biggie.”

  She smiles. “That shouldn’t be a problem. There’s room. I won’t be there, but I’ll send along the details. I’m catching a flight to Miami in the morning to finalize our shoot plans with Matthew,” she says.

  “Oh great,” I reply. “So you’ll enjoy a working vacation too?”

  “Ah, sadly not. After that I’m off to London as soon as the camera starts rolling.” She gestures to her peep-toe shoes. “I’ll barely have time to get my feet in the ocean before I’ll be heading across the ocean for work.”

  Ah, the Bespoke deal. I remember reading in the news that Rafe’s deal won’t close until the end of next month.

  Then she guides me through the affair, introducing me to people. No surprise, I glimpse Tanner chatting with Finn, after all. Tanner holds a beer, Finn a tumbler of liquor, but their glasses look full, almost like the drinks are props.

  What is up with the two of them?

  But I let the question go as Theresa makes intros for me, and pop music plays, and waiters serve sushi appetizers.

  I told myself not to expect to see Rafe, but the entire time I’m making small talk, I can’t shake a foolish hope that I will.

  Then, as the event winds down, the hair on the back of my neck stands on end. My throat goes dry.

  I turn my head toward the door, and just like that, my pulse rockets to the stratosphere. Rafe walks into the ballroom and sweeps the crowd with his gaze.

  He wears a tailored suit, no tie, and a nine o’clock stubble I want to rub my cheek against until my skin sizzles.

  He weaves through the guests, nodding hello here, setting a hand on a shoulder there, flashing a smile.

  And I stand staring at him stupidly, hoping he’s coming for me.

  Get a grip, Gunnar.

  He’s the CEO. He owns the company. Of course he’s here.

  But he’s moving through the room with purpose, crossing through the crowds like he’s here for a reason.

  My skin goes hot, but my heart goes cold.

  I’m so not over him.

  44

  THE VIEW FROM THE BALCONY

  Gunnar

  Rafe is unstoppable.

  In that black suit, purple shirt, and no tie, he’s coming for me, and I hate that I’m vibrating at the thought of being near him.

  I will myself to feel nothing.

  I can’t let myself fall for the guy again. He’s unavailable. He made that crystal clear.

  But in three more seconds, he’ll be right in front of me.

  Three, two, one . . .

  He stops. “Gunnar.”

  “Rafe.”

  His brown eyes are hard as they lock with mine. “I need to talk to you.”

  What the hell?

  He disappears to another continent and then demands an audience?

  Fuck that. Screw the way my skin is buzzing. Fuck the way my cells are humming.

  But the man is one of my sponsors, so I better be professional.

  Somewhat professional.

  I cross my arms and lift my chin. “About what?”

  “About something I said,” he bites out, like he’s angry at himself.

  But I still don’t like his attitude. He broke things off. I took it like a champ because I care about him. I hated seeing him torn up over doing the right thing. I let him go because it’s what he needed. He doesn’t get to show up and order me around.

  I pretend to smile at someone in the distance. “Gotta do this later, Rafe. I need to say hi to Tanner.” Then I step away, heading for my bud.

  Rafe darts out a hand and grabs my wrist, gripping me tight. The man is strong.

  “What is it?” I ask, trying to stay impervious.

  He steps close enough that I can smell his cologne, and I hazard a glance at his gorgeous face. His eyes are shells. He’s devastated.

  My heart thaws a degree or two. Maybe more.

  “Please, Gunnar,” he says, pleading like a broken man. “I’m so sorry.”

  I’m half pissed, half intrigued. I scan the room. The ballroom is swimming with guests and the entryway is packed. But not far from us, there are doors to the balcony.

  I head that way, weaving through the glittery crowd, and he follows. I slide open the door and step onto the terrace, eight floors above the New York street. He steps out behind me and closes the door behind him.

  It’s just us out here on a balcony, and I’m free to let out what I’m truly feeling in my shattered heart. “What the fuck, Rafe? You come in? You demand an audience with me?”

  He stares at me like I’m the first food he’s seen in weeks. “I lied,” he confesses like it’s a mortal sin. “And I’m sorry.”

  Curiosity edges out my other emotions. “What did you lie about?”

  “I said I had to go to London early for meetings.”

  Wait. Whoa. “That was a lie?”

  He nods, contrition etched across his face. “I had to escape you, Gunnar, and then I lied, and I came here tonight to tell you.”

  I reel at his words. Why would he have to escape me? Why did he want to admit he lied? “We were already broken up.”

  He grimaces. Good. Saying it hurts me too. Seeing him hurts. Wanting him hurts.

  “I knew the date of the photo shoot, and I wanted to see you desperately. I didn’t know if I could stay away,” he says grimly. “I stared at the calendar and pictured showing up at the shoot, asking everyone to leave, then pushing you against the wall to show you how much I’d missed you.” Each word sounds scraped and rough. “I didn’t know if I could be in the same city and stay away.”

  “You were in the same city with me the whole time before the shoot,” I point out. I mean, logic matters.

  He drags a hand through his hair, his eyes pinched. “It was the idea that I knew where you were, where I could find you at a particular moment, someplace I’d have an excuse to be. I wanted to tell you that I missed you. That’s why I got on a plane.”

  I’m crackling. I am dynamite, and he’s lit the fuse. “And now?” I ask breathlessly.

  He curls his hands in fists as if he’s fighting not to touch me. “This time, I flew across the ocean to tell you I lied when I promised you I wouldn’t.” He takes a big breath as if to fuel his final words. “I came because I miss you so much, it’s driving me mad.”

  I close my eyes, fighting with the anger and desire tearing through me. When I open them again, I set a hand on his chest and grab onto his purple silk shirt. “Goddamn you for showing up, Rafe. Goddamn you for confessing that. I was getting over you, and you just came here to destroy me.”

  His eyes flare with heat, and he licks his lips. “Do you want me to walk away?”

  “Fuck you. I can’t walk away.” I yank him against me, and I kiss him ruthlessly.

  My lips smash into his, and I consume his greedy mouth. I pour my soul into the kiss, biting his lip, sucking on his tongue, making him moan.

  I push my body against his. I grab his firm ass in one hand while the other cups his stubbled cheek. I jerk him closer, and we grind together. My back’s against the wall right next to the sliding glass door, barely out of view from the party.

  I kiss him relentlessly, driving him wild. He’s a man undone, hands grappling at my shirt, cock pressing against my hard-on.

  When I break the kiss, he’s panting, and his dark eyes are rabid as he cups my cheeks. “I have been going crazy,” he murmurs.

  “Well, I already am,” I confess.

  “Show me how crazy,” he demands.

  “I will.” I grab his hand to push his palm against the outline of my aching cock.

  “Yes,” he growls, sounding drunk on lust.

  So am I. My head is a haze; my reason is shot. I move his hand against my hard-on and take staggered breath after staggered breath as he strokes me.

  I’ve missed this so fucking much. Missed him.

  I glance at the city spread out in front of me. At all of New York looking at me. Owen’s warning words flash in my brain. Someone could see you. Someone could have a camera.