“Which of course makes him right up my alley,” Leslie muttered dryly.
Dropping her chair down, she slapped her palms on her desk and said to her plant friends in various states of unhappiness scattered about the room, “I declare the rest of today a No Peter day.” She opened her mouth to continue, and then what she’d said registered, and she closed it again on a chuckle. Every day was a No Peter day. That was the whole point of the bet.
A knock sounded at the door and Leslie sat up in her chair, calling out, “Come in.”
She slipped her feet back into her heels and froze when the door opened and John Crispin walked in. “John!” she exclaimed, completely taken by surprise. What in the world was he doing here? She never thought she’d see him again after his trade from Denver to Boston.
Her ex-boyfriend smiled a little bashfully and ducked his head, looking at her through his lashes. “How’re you doing, Leslie? Mind if I come in?” He hesitated at the threshold, uncertain.
She waved him in, still jarred by the whole unexpected visit, and forced a smile. “I’m well, thanks. How are you doing?” They hadn’t seen or spoken to each other since the night he’d asked her to move to Boston with him. Instead of saying yes and making him happy, she’d dumped him and broken his heart.
But she just hadn’t been able to uproot and move to another city for a man she didn’t love. Especially when she was really just starting to get her feet back under her where she was.
His smile grew and he said, “You’re wondering what the hell I’m doing here, aren’t you?”
Pretty much exactly, yes.
Leslie took a second to take him in and noted that he looked good. She said as much, “You look great, Johnny.” Her nickname for him slipped out before she’d known it had even formed on her lips, and she grimaced slightly. But the truth was he did look fantastic. The ballplayer was the big rugged sort. All planes and angles, firm lips and hard man. Except his hair. He had this soft, luxuriously wavy hair that tumbled over his shirt collar, a striking contrast to the rest of him.
His eyes roamed over her and something flickered in them, but before she could really see, he cleared his throat and looked away.
“I’m in town for the Series.” His rough, deep voice a shade uncertain. “I was wondering . . .” He paused and gave a self-conscious laugh. “Okay, I was wondering if maybe you’d like to go for a drink or coffee or something while I’m in town. You know, catch up, see how each other are doing?”
Leslie smiled softly. “That’s sweet, John.” She opened her mouth, intent on declining the offer because although he was great she wasn’t interested in rekindling anything at all with him, when an image of Peter came to mind and out popped, “Sounds great!”
Damn it.
Mentally kicking herself, Leslie inhaled deeply and jerked when the phone rang. She gave John an apologetic look. “Do you mind? I’m sure it’ll be quick.” It better be. She had to figure out how to get out of their date. That might take a while.
The brown-eyed player shook his head. “Not at all.”
“Thanks.”
The phone rang again and she snatched up the receiver. “Leslie Cutter.”
He moved to look at the pictures she’d hung on the wall above the couch and she took in his jeans and green fleece, his broad well-muscled shoulders and tight behind. And she felt nothing. Absolutely nothing. All because of one very infuriating Irish-Ukrainian pitcher.
“Ms. Cutter, this is Jerry Patowski.”
Finally. She’d been calling his office practically nonstop for days with none of her calls returned. It was so annoying.
“Hi, Jerry.” There was some bite in her tone, and she swallowed, forced it down a notch. “I’ve been trying to call you about my apartment. You said last week that you were waiting on some fittings. What’s the current status?” She knew she wasn’t being very gracious and didn’t really care. It had been weeks. At this point they’d better prorate her rent to the point of free. Maybe pay her money. If she was ever in the same room as Kowalskin again she’d mention that very idea.
“Sorry about that, but it’s been busy. We got another busted pipe in Apartment 3D.” He took a breath like he was pulling on a cigarette and said with a voice like chewed sandpaper, “Your place should be ready on the first.”
Her eyes went wide in disbelief. She couldn’t have heard that right. “Of November?”
“That’s right.”
No, no. That was wrong. She was supposed to be out of Peter’s place and back into hers immediately. Her heart depended upon it. She shook her head. “Wait. Are you telling me that it will have been an entire month before I get my place back?” What the hell kind of plumbing problem had they found that took an entire month to fix?
This whole thing was beginning to sound sketchy.
“It’s the best I can do,” Jerry replied gruffly.
Her sigh was strong enough to cause a tsunami. “Fine.”
Leslie hung up, battling the frown she felt forming between her brows, and pasted on a smile for John. “How about you give me a shout when you’re free and we’ll have that chat?” Hopefully he’d get so caught up in the Series he’d forget about asking her out.
Picking up on his cue to leave, John turned from the pictures and smiled warmly. “Sounds terrific.” He glanced around and added, “Well, I should be going. Wouldn’t want to be caught in enemy territory, so to speak.” He grinned amiably with the joke.
Laughing dutifully, she sent him on his way with a wave and a, “Call me,” smiling brightly and not meaning any of it. Public relations schmoozing was a very valuable skill to have, and it came in handy when she wanted to hide her true feelings.
As soon as he left she dropped her forehead to her desk and muttered after a few minutes, “Somebody shoot me.”
“That good a day, eh, princess?”
And it just got even better. Oh, skippy.
Leslie kept her hands limp at her sides and raised her head slightly, blowing hard at a thick clump of hair that was covering her right eye. “It’s super.”
“Looks like.” Peter crossed his legs and leaned a shoulder into the door frame. “Was that Crispin I spotted leaving just now?” He tipped his head back down the long hallway at the entrance.
Leslie plopped her chin on the desk and muttered again, “In the flesh.”
Because Peter looked way better standing there than he had any right to, and because her heart was doing little back handsprings of joy at the sight of him, she closed her eyes and pretended she was in Ft. Lauderdale on the beach. It was working fairly well too, except that her mind had taken a snapshot of him and it was right behind her eyelids like a Polaroid. He was there in all his glory: messy hair, white Eric Clapton T-shirt, faded jeans, leather bracelet, and scuffed-up Vans. And since it was her imagination and not the real thing, imaginary Leslie ran right on up to him like a scene out of Bridget Jones, wearing only a long trench coat and killer Ferragamos, and they kissed in grand romantic style.
Ugh! Stupid backstabbing imagination.
Snapping her eyes open, Leslie slapped her palms on the desktop and forced her head up, not waiting for Peter’s answer. “Why are you here? Aren’t we not on speaking terms, or have you changed your mind and decided to be an adult about things?” There, go on the offense and get him in retreat so he’ll go away before you do something stupid like blurt out your feelings.
She’d been avoiding looking at him again, but did it now, and it wasn’t so bad. He was only marginally amazing. And the fact that his thick, curly lashes and pale blue eyes made her stomach jittery was super aggravating. What had happened to independent didn’t-want-a-man Leslie?