Pitch Perfect(52)

Emmy had to give herself credit. She was a master of getting into the most fucked-up situations when it came to her personal life.

Since she hadn’t woken up next to Alex, signs pointed to him being somewhere else in the condo. She might as well bite the bullet and face him so they could figure out how to handle things. She was hoping he’d let her slink home quietly with her tail between her legs and a massive headache as punishment.

If she got lucky in that sense, she would never ask for another favor from God as long as she lived. Even though she wasn’t Catholic, she made the sign of the cross to demonstrate her sincerity. Then, having lollygagged as long as she could without feeling stupid, she eased open the bedroom door and went searching for Alex.

The bathroom and kitchen lights were both dimmed, and the guest bedroom was empty. Why had she been in the master if there was a perfectly good guestroom? The queasy feeling renewed in her tummy.

Beyond the guestroom was a large open-concept living room/dining room, each sharing the same big glass wall as the master with its stunning view of the Bay. She wished she could remember seeing that view at night because it must have been something extraordinary.

A big-screen TV fixed to one wall was set to mute but had SportsCenter on, the previous night’s box scores scrolling along the bottom while a highlight reel of the best clips from the games showed on screen. She smiled to herself when they recapped Tucker’s stellar pitching efforts.

A muffled snore from the large leather sectional drew her attention back, and she edged forward until her thighs were against the sofa and she was staring down at the man sleeping there.

It took a moment for her brain to process what she was seeing. Unless Alex had grown six inches overnight and had traded his small paunch for lean muscle, she was not in Alex Ross’s condo.

The man sleeping below her rolled and cracked an eyelid, showing a big brown eye. A smile crept onto his lips, and he opened the other eyelid, this one a beautiful blue so crisp it rivaled the sky outside.

“You’re up,” he mumbled.

“You’re Tucker,” she replied.



Tucker wasn’t too sure what to make of Emmy’s announcement. Of course he was Tucker, who else would he be?

Emmy—who usually looked put together even with a ponytail—was mussed, her hair a tangled mess and her mascara smudged under her eyes.

She was still beautiful to him.

He groaned as he stretched, his body reminding him no man over six feet tall and thirty years of age should sleep on a couch no matter how comfortable it seemed at the time. He was stiff and his shoulder had wedged into the cushions, making it cramp up when he tried to lift it over his head.

The couch hadn’t been his intended sleeping spot when he’d put Emmy to sleep in his room the night before. He meant to sleep in the guestroom and leave her his bed, but he’d stayed up too late looking at the footage of other games and dozed off on the couch.

At least he was wearing more than he usually would have at home. He’d had the good sense to throw on a pair of flannel pajama bottoms so he wasn’t at risk of flashing Little Tucker to Emmy when he shucked off the blanket he’d tangled himself in and got to his feet. All the same her cheeks flushed as if he were stark naked.

He inspected himself to confirm he was, in fact, dressed. Her blush wasn’t the result of any accidental nudity on his part—he wasn’t even sporting morning wood. Yet her gaze was transfixed on his abdomen. If he could reduce a woman to stunned silence with his abs, there might be something to say for regular visits to the ballpark gym.

“Um…” She stared down at her feet, playing with the hem of her shirt to avoid meeting his gaze. “I’m not sure how to, um…”

“How much of last night do you remember?” He padded by her and into the large kitchen where he had a Felons warm-up hoodie tossed on the back of one of the barstools. To keep her from blushing to death he put it on, and she raised her eyes, looking at him shyly through her lashes. For a woman who was so confident and spirited in her day-to-day life, it was endearing to see her out of sorts. He played with the idea of making her think something had happened between them to see how flustered she could get, but before he could say, You said I did things to you no man ever had, she spoke first.

“I think the last thing I remember was drinking with Alex. After I broke up with Simon.”

Tucker knew that part already, having received a dozen or more texts from Alex over the course of the evening beseeching the pitcher to come to the bar and be Emmy’s immediate rebound guy. So the news she had terminated her relationship wasn’t actually news, but hearing it from her made him respond in a way he hadn’t expected.