He’s so tall, so wide, so broad, so . . . big. My cheeks burn, a grin splitting my cheeks as I remember the definite outline of just how big he probably is. If the old wives’ tales are true and penis size and shoe size are related, he must wear at least a thirteen.
“G’day,” Macie responds through the line.
“G’day? Are you Australian now?”
She laughs. “I have a patient that’s Australian. I’m in love with the accent. Will says he’s going to kill me if I don’t bloody stop.”
“I can see why,” I joke. “What’s happening in Boston?”
“On lunch break. Called to see what my best friend is doing.”
Falling into my chair and squeezing my thighs together to try to quell the ache throbbing between my legs, I look once again at the doorway. His cologne, a musky, rich fragrance, still permeates the air. It’s like he’s still taunting me without having to even be here. So unfair.
“Thank God you called,” I mutter. “I’d probably be on my back on my desk right now if you hadn’t.”
“What?”
“I mean, I can’t help it. I’m just a woman. A badass one with the restraint of a saint, if the last ten minutes prove anything, but I was cracking. I’m only human.”
“Slow down there, Saint Danielle. What are you talking about?” she laughs.
“You’ll never guess who was just in my office.”
“Probably not. So tell me.”
“Lincoln Landry.” The line goes quiet. After a few long seconds, I realize she has no idea who I’m talking about. “Star centerfielder for the Tennessee Arrows?” I offer.
“Ohhhh . . .”
“Yeah, ohhhh.”
“Sorry. If it’s not a fighter or a player for Boston, I don’t know them. I’m fairly certain Will would break up with me if he suspected I liked anyone other than his Red Sox.”
“Google Lincoln. It’s worth the possible break up,” I say, fanning my still-red cheeks. “He’s literally the best looking guy I’ve ever seen, Macie.”
“That’s saying a lot coming from you, Miss Hottie Magnet.”
My mind goes through the photo album of men I’ve met or known in my life. It’s a pretty spectacular list, thanks to being the child of Bryan and Tracey Ashley Kipling. Athletes, movie stars, models? I’ve seen them all. And none of them hold a candle to Lincoln Landry in person.
The confidence he carries is such a turn-on. Borderline cocky. Halfway arrogant, yet he pulls it off because he has every right to be those things. He’s delicious. Hot. Talented. Wealthy. From what the media says, he’s also funny and kind and sweet.
Screw him and his perfect resume.
And flawless face.
And delicious body.
And probably game-winning stamina. I’m going to be a mess today just thinking about it.
“Why was he in your office?” Macie asks, right as I was ready to mentally remove his clothes. “Oh my God, Danielle! I just pulled him up. Why can’t I be you? Just for a day?”
“I’m quite happy I’m me today,” I laugh. “He just walked off the elevator on the wrong floor and followed me to my office.”
“Why?”
“Does it matter? Now I’m sitting here with wet panties, his ‘Fuck me’ cologne filling my office, and all sorts of ideas as to what his body looks like under those sweatpants and t-shirt.”
“He wore sweatpants?” she gulps.
“Yup.”
“Shit,” she breathes, a squeak in her voice. “Those are the sexiest things ever. Shouldn’t be, but they are. Don’t even tell me they sat low on his hips.”
“I won’t,” I sigh dreamily. My eyes flutter closed as the broadness of his shoulders fill my memory, the way his chest tapered down on the sides to one trim, hard waist. My fingers sing as I imagine running my hands down what I’m sure is an etched V. “He swaggered in here like a rock star. He wore sweatpants like most men wear a tailored suit, Mace. Like . . . he must really be good if he’s that confident.”
“Oh, I bet he’s good. Check out that arm porn in his pictures. And those hands—dear Lord! Think of what they could do to you.” A camera shutter sounds through the phone. “Here, I’m texting you a screenshot of this one.”
“That’s precisely what I’m trying not to think about,” I laugh. “I have to work for the next five hours!”
Macie sighs right along with me. “On that note, I need to get back to work too. No hot baseball players here, but one can hope, right?”
“Two words: Will Gentry.”
“I need to call you later and tell you about last night. I’m being invaded by families right now, so I can’t get into details. I’ll just say that boy had me panting for hours, Danielle. Hours.”
“Call me later,” I laugh.
“Cheerio!”
I replace the handset and settle back into my seat. A shiver tears through my body, an aftershock from being in the center of the Landry storm. I consider locking the door and getting myself off. I need the release. My body needs to return to normal working order, having been thrusted up the—
Thrusted? I’m never going to get through this day. The worst part is that the good-looking asshole knew exactly what he was doing to me.
They always do.
Which is why they’re in my no-fly zone.
Lincoln
IT’S FUNNY WHAT YOU LEARN at two in the morning when you’re bored, sober, and a little uneasy. It’s a trifecta I’m just getting acquainted with. I might be sober a lot during the season, but boredom and anxiety aren’t familiar. Or fun.
Around.
Around.
Around.
I’ve tried to watch one blade of the ceiling fan, focusing on it and trying to block out the other four as they whiz above me. Over the last thirty minutes, I’ve learned it’s impossible to count the number of rotations in a minute when it’s set at medium speed. I’ve also learned that Skittles make violent projectiles when launched into the blades of the fan, regardless of the setting.
I already knew that though. That was a painful lesson learned at a party a few years back.
Rubbing my shoulder, I see the slight purple indent of the candy against the white paint of my bedroom. It will be gone tomorrow. Rita, the housekeeper, is thorough like that.
I snatch the remote off the bedside table and flip the fan off. It slows, shuddering just a bit before the spinning comes to a halt. Immediately, I remember why I turned it on in the first place: it’s the silence that kills me. It’s the quiet that allows all of the worries to wage a sneak attack against me. It slams into me from every direction since my meeting with the Arrows’ General Manager after my therapy appointment today.
“It’s still too early to know anything, Lincoln. All I can tell you is that we want you back in an Arrows uniform next season,” Billy Marshall, the GM, says.
“I want that too. This is my city,” I gulp, purposefully not looking at the report on the table between us.
“Let’s work through the rehab and see how it goes. You know it’s not up to me. It’s up to the owners. I’ll have a say, and you know I’m pulling for you. Hell, we all are. You’re a franchise player, Landry. But you know, at the end of the day, this is business.”