That’s a sign that I should focus on the interview. So I grab my podcast recorder, turn it on, then I say, “Now it’s time for my favorite part of the show.”
He rubs his hands together. “Lay it on me,” he says, all eager and ready to go.
“Lay it on?” I quirk a brow.
He shoots me a don’t give me a hard time look. “I didn’t mean any innuendo by that, I swear,” he says, holding up his hands.
“I’ll let it go just this once,” I say, because I do want him to be lacing innuendo in his words.
I like his innuendo.
His flirting.
His whole confident but friendly vibe. He’s just my style, and I didn’t realize I’d be into a guy like him till now. But I am. Oh hell, am I ever.
“Let’s talk about your favorite places on campus,” I say.
We roam around campus for the next hour, laughing, joking, talking. Holden goes wistful at times, telling me about some of the classes he took, the escapades he and his friends got into, the games he won and lost. It’s a blast traveling down memory lane with him.
“Coming here is almost like a class reunion for you, isn’t it?” I ask.
“Hey, it’s not even my five-year one. Don’t age me up yet, Reese,” he teases.
We’ve ended the tour on the steps of the history building, where we linger, taking a seat while I put the equipment away in my messenger bag.
“Don’t worry. I heard you when you said you were twenty-five,” I volley, my skin tingling. Those forest-green eyes of his pin me for a hot second, then another one, then a few more. He licks his lips, tilts his head, seems to run his gaze over my face.
“I’m only saying that because I want to make the most of my years in baseball,” he says.
“I’ve no doubt you will. I can’t wait to see one of your Bandits games.”
His eyes glint. “I’d love to see you in the stands.”
“I’ll be there,” I say, as I stow my headphones then zip my bag.
This is the moment when the day should end. The sun is fading into the early evening. Our work is over. He’s free to go.
But he’s not moving.
Nor am I.
We’re sitting like couples do all over campus—stretched out together on building steps, hanging out in nooks in the library.
That’s how this feels.
Like a guy and a gal grabbing time together and wanting more.
The air between us is charged. Atoms and ions vibrate between us.
“Did you love it here?” I ask. I want this time to keep unfurling.
“I did. I was here on scholarship, so I busted my ass, but I did my best to have fun and love it. They say college is the best four years of your life. Or however many,” he says with a shrug, pressing his palms behind him on the steps, long legs stretched out.
“Right. You finished in three so you could go into the draft earlier.”
“Sports favor the young, so I did summer school to graduate sooner. So I guess I should say, the best three years of your life.”
“Do you believe that? Doesn’t sound like you do.”
His lips curve up in a deliciously dirty grin. “I don’t know. I’m pretty happy right now.”
His eyes hold mine, and his gaze makes my stomach pirouette.
His smile goes to my head, makes me all hazy and breathless.
I’m pretty sure he’s not talking about life in the majors. I’m pretty sure he means this second, this moment, the two of us.
That this connection is making him happy.
“Me too,” I say under my breath. Anticipation zaps through my body, turning me warm and buzzy everywhere.
“And you, Reese? What was your favorite part of college?” Holden asks.
“My friends. The opportunities. And what I’m doing right now,” I say, feeling daring with him. I want to squeeze as much yumminess from this time with him as I can.
It’s only been one day. Less than a day. I feel the ticking of the clock and know this interlude is ending soon.
His lips curve up in a crooked grin. “Is that so?”
My chest flips, a warm, shimmery sensation rushing through me. “I’m happy right now.”
He sighs, and I tense, dreading what it means. I’m too aware of the sun taunting us as it brings the curtain down on today. “Do you have to go?”
Please say no.
His tone is soft, his hand sliding closer on the concrete until his fingers are inches away from mine. “I don’t want to,” he whispers.
“I don’t want you to either,” I say.
This interview has veered so quickly away from professional, but I don’t care. I want all the next things with him as his eyes search my face.
I melt into a puddle of hope. I’m hoping so hard for a kiss. Longing so desperately for him to sweep his lips across mine.
His hand moves a little closer, and I do the same until soon our pinkies hook around each other. Jolts of pleasure burst inside my body. Sparks lick across my skin.
On the steps of the history building, my hand touching his, his touching mine, he dips his head closer as he asks, “Would you like to have dinner with me, Reese?”
His voice betrays his nerves a bit, enough that I can tell this isn’t his norm. He doesn’t ask out every woman he meets, talks to, interviews with.
At least, I hope not.
“I would love to,” I say. Then I lick my lips and go for broke. “But I’d also really like to . . .”
He threads his fingers through mine, squeezes them more tightly, then dips his face closer and closer to finish the thought. “To kiss?”
My answer comes out in a breathy, lust-drenched whisper. “Yes.”
Electricity crackles between us as Holden inches closer.
Stops.
Holds my gaze.
I swallow, my throat dry. I long to taste his mouth, to know if he’s salty-sweet. He leans in closer, and my breath shallows as my chest squeezes.
Once again, he halts.
My heartbeat staggers, and I ache everywhere.
Please kiss me.
He lifts a hand, hovering it close to my face, and I’m trapped in suspended anticipation, caught in a heady, teasing snare.
I half want to stay here, in this limbo between the prospect of a kiss and the kiss itself. But I desperately crave the contact. Crave it like I’ve never craved a kiss before.
His thumb makes contact with my jawline. Slow. Agonizingly slow and deliciously tender. Leaning into his hand, I nearly combust. A throaty gasp escapes my lips.
My God, who is this man who can turn me inside out with barely a touch? I’m sparkling, lit up like a carnival game going wild for the winner.
His thumb skims along my face, all while his green-eyed gaze darkens, turns hotter as he stares at me, then stares harder at my lips.
He moves closer again. His lips are dangerously near. I part mine, waiting, hoping.
Longing.
It pulls me into his sexual orbit, my skin humming.
I can’t take it anymore. I need his touch. Now. “Kiss me, please,” I whisper, almost begging.
Pretty sure he wanted me to plead, since his mouth crooks up in a grin. “Since you asked so nicely,” he says in a sultry tone that makes my libido sing. We’re talking crawl across the baby grand, grab the mic, and croon a torch song.