Irresistibly Yours
Page 40
Back then, she’d opened the door dressed in a robe, and his fingers hadn’t itched to remove it—much.
And now, Cole found himself hoping that history would repeat itself. That she’d open the door in a robe, and that he’d peel it off her body…
The door opened, and Cole blew out a sigh of regret.
No robe.
Just an enormously oversize Texas Rangers sweatshirt, cropped black yoga pants, and bare feet.
“What’s up?” she said, ushering him in.
Cole had to laugh. “Are you this welcoming to all uninvited visitors?”
She snorted. “Trust me. When you’re as short on visitors as I am, you’d be excited to see anyone.”
He smiled, although it wasn’t quite the answer he wanted. He’d wanted her to say that she was happy to see him….
“But I am in an extra good mood,” she was saying. “Edgar’s alive.”
“Come again?” he said, following her into the living room where the TV blared the Boston/Toronto game. The Yankees were away, on the West Coast, so their game wouldn’t be on for another hour.
“Edgar,” she said, gesturing at the fishbowl. “My fish. I thought he was dead, because he didn’t eat his breakfast, and was just sort of floating there, but maybe he was only resting, because now he’s moving again.”
Penelope was staring down at the fish with an adoring look on her face, and Cole could have sworn that his heart squeezed.
So much damn affection for a fish.
“ ’Sup, Edgar,” he said, glancing down at the black goldfish. He glanced at her. “Maybe he’s lonely. Have you thought about bringing him a friend?”
Her mouth turned downward, her eyes sad. “He had a friend. Lola. She died a couple days after I brought her home.”
Cole nodded solemnly. “May she rest in peace.”
“She’s totally in fish heaven where Finding Nemo plays twenty-four-seven,” Penelope said, good humor returning. “Can I get you a beer?”
He lifted an eyebrow. “Aren’t you going to ask what I’m doing here?”
She seemed to think about this. “Oh. Sure. What are you doing here?”
Suddenly Cole regretted his prompting her to ask the question, because he remembered too late that he didn’t have a damn clue.
He opened his mouth, then shut it again, and Penelope gave him a sly grin. “Thought that might be the case. Beer?”
“Yeah, okay,” he said, running his hand through his hair.
“Take your jacket off,” she said over her shoulder as she headed to the kitchen. “Sit. Get comfortable. It’s an awesome game.”
He glanced at the screen as he shrugged out of his jacket. “It’s zero–zero.”
“Exactly,” she said, coming back and handing him a bottle of beer. “It’s the fifth inning and neither team has gotten a hit.”
“Really,” he said, drawing out the word as he turned back to the screen with more interest.
She nodded and sat beside him, curling her legs up underneath her. “It’s early yet. One’s bound to mess up. But still, how cool would a double no-hitter be. There’s only been one in MLB history—”
“Fred Toney and Hippo Vaughn,” he interrupted, “in nineteen seventeen. The first hit didn’t happen until the tenth inning.”
Penelope glanced over at him, then lifted her bottle. “Well done, sir.”
He leaned back with a smug grin, kicking off his shoes before putting his feet up on her ottoman. “It’s annoying, huh? No longer being the only one in your social circle who can spout little-known sports facts?”
“I kind of like it,” Penelope said, taking a sip of beer. “Maybe it’s different being a woman. I hate to stereotype, but most of my female friends aren’t all that interested in talking sports. I mean, some like football, some like baseball, et cetera, but there’s nobody quite as passionate about all of them as me.”
He glanced over at her profile. No makeup. He loved it. “What about guy friends?”
She lifted a shoulder. “Yeah, they care more about my knowledge of hockey facts, I guess. It was easier in my twenties, when I could hang out at a pub on a Saturday with a bunch of guy friends. But the older we all got, the more they started to drop off. Get married. They sort of quit coming out for all-day sports benders, you know?”
He did know. She was all alone.
Just like him.
Well, not just like him. To be fair, she had a point about it being easier for him than her to hang with the guys.
He could see all too well why her pool of guy friends had dried up. Penelope wouldn’t have thought of herself as a threat to all those wives and girlfriends, but there was something appealing about a woman you could be yourself with; someone who wouldn’t tune you out when you talked about RBIs and penalty flags. He was betting all of her guy friends’ significant others had known it.
Cole knew Penelope thought that her “one of the guys” vibe detracted from her appeal but she was dead wrong on that. He didn’t know a single other woman in his acquaintance who’d be so satisfied—so thrilled—to be spending Sunday in front of a potential double no-hitter.
It was pretty fantastic.
As though determined to prove his point, Penelope glanced over at him during the next commercial. “I was going to order pizza tonight. You wanna stay for dinner?”
And now, Cole found himself hoping that history would repeat itself. That she’d open the door in a robe, and that he’d peel it off her body…
The door opened, and Cole blew out a sigh of regret.
No robe.
Just an enormously oversize Texas Rangers sweatshirt, cropped black yoga pants, and bare feet.
“What’s up?” she said, ushering him in.
Cole had to laugh. “Are you this welcoming to all uninvited visitors?”
She snorted. “Trust me. When you’re as short on visitors as I am, you’d be excited to see anyone.”
He smiled, although it wasn’t quite the answer he wanted. He’d wanted her to say that she was happy to see him….
“But I am in an extra good mood,” she was saying. “Edgar’s alive.”
“Come again?” he said, following her into the living room where the TV blared the Boston/Toronto game. The Yankees were away, on the West Coast, so their game wouldn’t be on for another hour.
“Edgar,” she said, gesturing at the fishbowl. “My fish. I thought he was dead, because he didn’t eat his breakfast, and was just sort of floating there, but maybe he was only resting, because now he’s moving again.”
Penelope was staring down at the fish with an adoring look on her face, and Cole could have sworn that his heart squeezed.
So much damn affection for a fish.
“ ’Sup, Edgar,” he said, glancing down at the black goldfish. He glanced at her. “Maybe he’s lonely. Have you thought about bringing him a friend?”
Her mouth turned downward, her eyes sad. “He had a friend. Lola. She died a couple days after I brought her home.”
Cole nodded solemnly. “May she rest in peace.”
“She’s totally in fish heaven where Finding Nemo plays twenty-four-seven,” Penelope said, good humor returning. “Can I get you a beer?”
He lifted an eyebrow. “Aren’t you going to ask what I’m doing here?”
She seemed to think about this. “Oh. Sure. What are you doing here?”
Suddenly Cole regretted his prompting her to ask the question, because he remembered too late that he didn’t have a damn clue.
He opened his mouth, then shut it again, and Penelope gave him a sly grin. “Thought that might be the case. Beer?”
“Yeah, okay,” he said, running his hand through his hair.
“Take your jacket off,” she said over her shoulder as she headed to the kitchen. “Sit. Get comfortable. It’s an awesome game.”
He glanced at the screen as he shrugged out of his jacket. “It’s zero–zero.”
“Exactly,” she said, coming back and handing him a bottle of beer. “It’s the fifth inning and neither team has gotten a hit.”
“Really,” he said, drawing out the word as he turned back to the screen with more interest.
She nodded and sat beside him, curling her legs up underneath her. “It’s early yet. One’s bound to mess up. But still, how cool would a double no-hitter be. There’s only been one in MLB history—”
“Fred Toney and Hippo Vaughn,” he interrupted, “in nineteen seventeen. The first hit didn’t happen until the tenth inning.”
Penelope glanced over at him, then lifted her bottle. “Well done, sir.”
He leaned back with a smug grin, kicking off his shoes before putting his feet up on her ottoman. “It’s annoying, huh? No longer being the only one in your social circle who can spout little-known sports facts?”
“I kind of like it,” Penelope said, taking a sip of beer. “Maybe it’s different being a woman. I hate to stereotype, but most of my female friends aren’t all that interested in talking sports. I mean, some like football, some like baseball, et cetera, but there’s nobody quite as passionate about all of them as me.”
He glanced over at her profile. No makeup. He loved it. “What about guy friends?”
She lifted a shoulder. “Yeah, they care more about my knowledge of hockey facts, I guess. It was easier in my twenties, when I could hang out at a pub on a Saturday with a bunch of guy friends. But the older we all got, the more they started to drop off. Get married. They sort of quit coming out for all-day sports benders, you know?”
He did know. She was all alone.
Just like him.
Well, not just like him. To be fair, she had a point about it being easier for him than her to hang with the guys.
He could see all too well why her pool of guy friends had dried up. Penelope wouldn’t have thought of herself as a threat to all those wives and girlfriends, but there was something appealing about a woman you could be yourself with; someone who wouldn’t tune you out when you talked about RBIs and penalty flags. He was betting all of her guy friends’ significant others had known it.
Cole knew Penelope thought that her “one of the guys” vibe detracted from her appeal but she was dead wrong on that. He didn’t know a single other woman in his acquaintance who’d be so satisfied—so thrilled—to be spending Sunday in front of a potential double no-hitter.
It was pretty fantastic.
As though determined to prove his point, Penelope glanced over at him during the next commercial. “I was going to order pizza tonight. You wanna stay for dinner?”
