“Only way to do it. I guess you found this spot too,” he says, glancing around.
“Year or two ago. School doesn’t start here till eight, so I get the track all to myself most mornings.”
“Except today,” he says. “Also, for the record, I’d like to say I was here first.”
I arch a brow as we round the top of the track. “And how do you figure, rookie?”
“I’ve been running here the last five mornings. This is the first time I’ve seen you.”
I laugh, tossing my head back. “Because I just showed up at spring training.”
“Even so. I’ve got squatter’s rights.”
“So, you’re claiming the entire field. No one else can use it but you?”
“Just staking my claim, if it comes down to it.”
“Ah.” I stroke my chin as we head along the straightaway, sneakers pounding the track. “You think there might be a scuffle?”
His dark blue eyes twinkle, full of all sorts of mischief. “Maybe. Scuffles can be fun.”
I walked right into that one. Now I’m picturing a hot, sweaty scuffle with him after this run. Oh, yes. I’d scuffle with him. Except that’s a terrible idea.
I’m quiet for a beat.
Grant shifts gears for us. “What’s that you’re listening to?”
Music. Playlists. This is safe to talk about. Much safer than scuffles.
I slide into the new topic like I’m stealing second. “Pearl Jam. Ever heard of them?”
He adopts a confused expression. “Gee. I have no idea who they are.”
I roll my eyes. “Then I won’t tell you Nirvana is on here too.”
“Dude, are you from our generation or are you time traveling from another one?”
I jerk my head back. “Well, someone is a smart aleck when he’s not handing over his phone.”
“Evidently,” he says with a laugh, a warm, bright sound, and I want to make him laugh again. It’s an infectious noise, and I just dig it.
“Funny, how everything changes when you’re not covered in ketchup,” I say.
“But weren’t you wielding the whipped cream, Deck?” he tosses back. “That’s what you were covering me in.”
Those words—covering me in—conjure up entirely different ways I could cover him.
Cover him with my body.
Cover him with my hands.
I look away.
“Cat got your tongue?” he asks.
I can’t let him win this battle of words and wills. I turn my gaze to him as we run. “No. I’m just thinking of . . . other uses for tongues.”
It’s too much fun to watch his reaction. To see his handsome face flush with a hint of embarrassment and a touch of something strangely like innocence in his blue eyes.
At last, Grant answers. “That is a nice thing to think about.”
His voice is raspy, and he stumbles a little on his words.
The stumble is all kinds of sexy on him.
Fifteen minutes into our run, I’m discovering that our rising-star catcher is a delicious mix of smartass and shy, flirty and a bit awkward.
He’s too adorable and too hot for words.
Time, once again, to steer the conversation toward safer shores. “I’m guessing you’re not listening to ‘Smells Like Teen Spirit,’ so what have you got on your playlist?”
He rolls with the rerouted topic. “Britney Spears.”
I arch a brow. “For real?”
“What?” He feigns surprise. “I don’t look like a Britney fan?”
“I’m not going to touch that one.”
“Fine. I was listening to Lady Gaga.”
I call bullshit on that too. “Really?”
“Don’t be a hater. Gaga is awesome. I love her like crazy.”
I groan, rolling my eyes. “Not my favorite, but I’m not a hater. Not of music. Not of anything.”
“That’s a good philosophy.” He looks ahead, rearranges his expression to a more serious one. “And I was listening to Cher, if you must know.”
I crack up, a big belly laugh. “Are you running through a list of gay icons?”
“It’s a test to see if you pass.”
I laugh harder. “Oh man, I don’t think that’s the best test.”
He snaps his fingers, points at me. “You’re right. There are much better tests. More fun ones.” His eyes glint, and, holy hell, I am in for a world of trouble with him. The flirt is strong in this one. “Don’t you worry, rookie. I’ll pass with flying colors.”
“Good to know,” he mutters, then rakes his hand through his thick hair, which flops back on his forehead, all perfectly disheveled.
I nod toward his AirPods. “So, for real, what are you listening to?”
“Nothing . . . at the moment.”
I roll my eyes. “What were you listening to on that secret playlist?”
He sighs heavily. “I’m listening to a book.”
“Did you think I would laugh?” I hold my arms out wide. “I’m not. See?”
“True. You’re not. I guess I’ll tell you what book, then.”
I wiggle my fingers. “Fess up.”
He looks straight ahead. “The Major League Baseball rule book.”
I gaze heavenward. “Why am I even asking you questions?”
“Because I’m the most interesting workout buddy you’ve had in a long time,” he says with a confident grin.