* * *
Reese: Should I wear my hair up or down?
* * *
Grant: Did you really just ask me for fashion advice?
* * *
Reese: I come to you for advice on literally everything and have since I was five. And you’ve given me hair advice before, so don’t act so surprised!
* * *
Grant: I’ll tell you what I always do—wear it down. Straight guys like it down.
* * *
Reese: This is for a podcast interview!
* * *
Grant: My bad. I thought you were going on a date. Who is the interview with?
* * *
Reese: You might know him. Holden Kingsley. Plays for the LA Bandits.
* * *
Grant: Damn, woman! Of course I know him. He better give you a good interview. If he doesn’t, he has me to answer to.
* * *
Reese: You’re so weirdly protective.
* * *
Grant: You’re so weirdly like a sister to me.
* * *
Reese: You’re my weird sorta brother.
* * *
Grant: True. And everyone in your life better be good to you.
* * *
Laughing, I close the text thread, figuring it’s best to keep the interview details to myself, just in case Holden turns out to be rude or unhelpful. I can only imagine how that’d irk my buddy.
Leaving my hair down, I exit my apartment to head to Helen Williams Hall, the marketing and communications department building, where Holden’s roundtable discussion is taking place.
Along the way, I think about Tia and Layla’s teasing last week.
I do not have a thing for Holden. How could I? I’ve never met him.
I’m picky with men. The world’s most overprotective father trained me to keep them out of my pants, but it was my mother’s advice that had more influence on that. She told me it’s best to wait for someone special to me.
So, I’ve waited, and I’m fine with that. I want to know someone, care for someone—hell, I want to love someone—before I let him into my body.
Nothing wrong with that, as far as I can tell.
When I arrive at the building, my nerves clamor at me, but I shut them down. This interview is a vital step on the ladder of my goals, but I can handle it. I’ve made a plan, outlined my questions. And thanks to years of playing sports and hosting interviews, I have plenty of poise and chutzpah.
But when I enter the auditorium, all that falls to the wayside. No planning or poise could prepare me for how charismatic Holden Kingsley is in person.
I spot the Bandits second baseman onstage, answering one of the moderator’s questions—forest-green eyes, thick dark hair, and a smile that lights up the room as he talks. He’s wearing a navy-blue button-down shirt, rolled up once at the cuffs. Casual, but still well-dressed.
When the session ends, he scans the auditorium, and his eyes meet mine where I’m sitting in the front row.
He lingers for a beat, maybe more, that gaze taking a leisurely stroll up and down my frame. There’s something in that look—the first tantalizing flickers of pleasure, the promise of moments to come, of kisses, of touches . . .
Or maybe I’m reading too much into one hot gaze.
He steps off the stage, strides up to me, and offers a big hand. “You must be Reese Fallon.”
There aren’t enough nets in the world to catch all the butterflies fluttering inside me right now.
I’m pretty sure that Holden Kingsley is precisely my type of guy.
2
Holden
I’m not immune to pretty women. I’ve never pretended or wanted to be.
The thing is, though, women—especially the brainy, confident, and beautiful ones—are a temptation, and temptation gets in the way of things like, say, winning.
If not winning, then doing my best every single day.
That’s what I need to do to achieve everything I’ve dreamed of. Not just for me, but for my family.
As I head down the steps and off the stage, I spot a woman I recognize instantly from her picture on the podcast web page. Once I lock eyes with her—a pair of eyes so light blue and pure they’re like crystal—I try to activate my defenses.
Don’t be lured by her gorgeous looks.
Don’t get sucked into the vortex of those cheekbones, that thick blonde hair, those bow-shaped lips, all red and cherry-ripe.
Women are distracting.
Focus on the plan, the schedule you made for today.
Do the interview. Snag a workout. Go to bed early. Catch the morning flight to Dallas and crush the ever-loving hell out of the Texas Scoundrels in a three-game series.
That’s what I’m going to do.
But after I check her out. She’s just too beautiful not to appreciate.
When I reach her, I flash my most professional, headshot-worthy grin, then extend a hand. “You must be Reese Fallon.”
She gives me a firm, confident handshake. “And you must be—wait, let me guess—Holden Kingsley.”
“Damn good intuition there.”
“It kicks in now and then,” she says, much more self-assured than I’d have expected from a college student. Then again, she’s a senior, and I was pretty confident when I was finishing up three years ago too.
She nods toward the stage, empty now as the other speakers mill about, chatting with audience members. “Did you enjoy your roundtable?”
I crook a grin. “I did, but there was no table. What’s the deal with that?”
Her mouth falls open in faux outrage, and lips-wide-open is a damn good look on her.
Don’t get distracted, Kingsley.
“That is so deceptive,” she says, parking her hands on her hips with a tsk of indignation. “Who hosts a roundtable without a table?”
“Right? That’s what I thought.” I like this vibe—easygoing and as satisfying as catching a lazy pop fly. We’ll chat, we’ll make harmless small talk, then I’ll be on my way.
“I hope you were able to roll with it,” she says.
I shrug. “That kind of stuff can throw other men off their game. Not this guy.”
A twinkle of mischief flickers in those blue eyes. “So you were able to handle that . . . curveball?”
I groan at the pun, but then shake my head and say, “Well-played.”
She gestures to the auditorium exit, starting us on our way up past the seats, her tone turning more professional. “The media rooms in Spark are great for interviews. I thought we could do the sit-down for the podcast in one of the soundproof booths before we do the walk-around portion of it?”
“That sounds fantastic. No curveballs there,” I say, adding a wink. Because why not?
“And you are adept at connecting with curveballs,” she says.