Pitch Perfect(41)

Again, Emmy’s stomach spoke louder than her brain, growling audibly. She hadn’t eaten anything since her dinner the previous evening, and now it was catching up with her.

“Who were you making dinner for?” she asked. There was no way in hell this setup was for him alone. If he’d known she was coming, she might have believed he’d go to the effort for her, but that wasn’t his style. A nice restaurant and vanilla sex was the Simon Howell M.O.

“I was having a friend over.”

“What friend?”

“Cassandra.”

“Your good friend Cassandra,” Emmy repeated, letting the words sink in for herself and parroting them back so he could appreciate the way they sounded from her end. “Cassandra Dano?”

Miss ESPN herself. The name sounded bitter in Emmy’s mouth. She tried to tell herself not to jump to any conclusions, but pesto and garlic bread made it hard not to jump.

“She and I are working on a piece together. I asked her to come by after her evening broadcast so we could compare notes.” He pointed to the MacBook on the counter open to a spreadsheet of scoring stats.

Emmy felt immediately horrible for her toxic reaction. She was the one who was having feelings for someone else, and she had heaped all her crap onto him. Talk about a guilty conscience.

“I can call her and tell her not to come, though,” he said.

“No…” She rubbed her hands on her pants, suddenly sweaty. More than that she didn’t feel like being there when Cassandra showed up. Next to the ten-foot-tall glamazon, Emmy would feel like a disheveled hag, which wouldn’t boost her mood at all. She also didn’t want to overthink everything Simon did or said around the other woman. It looked like he was planning to do actual work, and if that was the case, she was only going to be in his way. “Don’t worry about it. I have a hotel room,” she lied. “I just wanted to come and let you know I was here.”

“Are you staying long?”

“Long enough to make sure Dad’s okay.”

Simon nodded. “You’re sure you don’t want me to cancel? Cassandra won’t mind.”

“No, no. I need to sleep anyway. I’ll call you in the morning, okay?” Emmy backed away, then thinking better of her reaction, she leaned in and gave Simon a kiss. He returned the affection, but the gesture was more friendly than anything else.

“Breakfast?” he asked.

“We’ll see.”





Tucker should have been used to hotel beds.

He spent a good ninety days or more each summer on the road and had slept in a dozen different hotels, on beds of varying comfort, size and expense. This particular hotel—one of his own choosing—had a remarkable bed, but it wasn’t helping him sleep.

Lying on the soft feather mattress cover, with the duvet kicked off, Tucker stared at the ceiling and failed miserably to find any peace. The bright green glow of the alarm clock on his nightstand made the room appear even more alien, and he’d left the curtains open to allow the light of downtown Chicago in.

At home he lived in a spacious, fancy condo facing the Bay, with a glorious view of the Bay Bridge. Because of the bright lights that filled his home, he needed the extra glow to fall asleep in foreign cities.

But even the light was useless.

His head was so full of Emmy and his stupidity in following her to Chicago, there was no sense in trying to think of anything else. Especially sleep. She didn’t seem to mind him being there, but he was still wondering what madness had motivated him. He had a game in two days, and a commercial to film on the weekend. What he needed was rest and a good workout. Not to follow Emmy Kasper halfway across the country on a stupid whim.

She didn’t need him, Emmy was too strong for that. What had he been thinking? He was like a sad high school boy with a crush on a girl impossibly out of his league. And as a man who knew a great deal about leagues, that notion made him laugh a little. Major League pitcher, minor league lover.

He grumbled and rolled onto his side, staring at the brightly lit skyscrapers of Chicago’s Magnificent Mile. Emmy had said Simon didn’t live far from there, only a few miles down, near the park. Which meant she was close.

So close he imagined her knocking on the door.

Burying his face in the too-soft pillow, Tucker ignored his imagination and told himself, Sleep, you idiot.

Knock, knock-knock, knock.

He opened his eyes, staring into the white pillow. Tucker might have an active imagination, but it wasn’t so gifted he could conjure up a noise that real. Someone actually was knocking at his door. Climbing out of bed and ignoring the shock of cold tile on his feet when he reached the hallway, he forgot to check the peephole and opened the door.