The Virgin Replay by Lauren Blakely
Sierra
I’m pretty good at reading people—comes with being a bartender. But there’s one customer I haven’t been able to get a read on in the last year.
The guy who’s putting the pool cues away in the game room at my bar.
At least, I can’t get a read as to whether he’ll ever ask me out.
Or ask me to go home with him.
With everyone else gone for the night and The Spotted Zebra already closed, I steal a moment to check out Chance Ashford as he lifts his multimillion-dollar right arm to place the sticks in the holder on the wall.
I’m enjoying the view of him a lot. Every time he comes by, I enjoy the view a little more. And then I wonder . . .
When he’s done, the tall drink of a man turns around, wipes one palm across the other, and flashes me a winning grin. “That’s done.”
Best to keep things friendly, as they’ve always been, till I know where we might go from here. “Watch out. I just might enlist you in mopping and cleaning up,” I say breezily.
His chocolate-brown eyes twinkle. “I just might say yes.”
I laugh, then hook my thumb in the direction of the door. “Hit the road, Chance. You’ve got playoffs to rest up for.”
Chance is the closing pitcher for the San Francisco Cougars, my second-favorite baseball team in the city. Since my brother became their starting catcher, the team has grown on me. Some of the guys on the team have become close friends over the last few years, stopping by my bar after games.
Like this man.
Chance is obviously far and away my favorite of the guys who stop by. He’s easy to talk to and so damn easy on the eyes.
“I don’t mind helping. Our first playoff game isn’t for a couple days, so I don’t have an early bedtime tonight. Besides, I’m still amped up from clinching.”
I reach for a couple shot glasses left on the pool table. “But it’s late, and star closers need their beauty sleep.”
“That is true. Sleep is a beautiful thing. But I’ll still help you finish up.”
I can do it myself, but the team stayed late. The crowd was boisterous, and I won’t turn down an extra pair of hands at this post-midnight hour.
And those hands . . .
As he gathers the beer bottles from the pool table, I study his long strong fingers and big palms that can wrap around a baseball. And perhaps a woman’s hips.
Mmm, I like that image.
And what are you going to do about it, Sierra?
“Take these to the kitchen?”
I blink. Look up. Meet his eyes. A flush crawls up my chest as it takes me a few seconds to process his question.
“Yes, thanks,” I say, my throat a little dry.
Good thing he didn’t entirely catch me staring.
Chance takes the empties to the kitchen, places the bottles in the recycling, then sets the glasses in the sink. As we make quick work of washing and drying, I do my best to reroute my thoughts.
I can’t keep crushing on him like this.
Or is it lusting?
Probably a little of both.
Chance finishes setting the chairs on the tables, and I decide that tonight, it’s a crush. When I’m ready to say goodnight to The Spotted Zebra, I grab my purse from behind the counter and head for the door.
He holds it open for me.
“Thanks again. I appreciate it. You didn’t have to stay behind,” I say as I lock up the bar.
“I know I didn’t have to. I wanted to,” he says, his sexy voice a delicious rumble.
The crushy, lusty feeling definitely includes affection too. How can I help it when Chance looks at me with such genuine kindness, like it truly was his pleasure to help me out?
Kindness in a man I lust after? That would be potent.
He glances at his wrist even though he doesn’t wear a watch. “It’s late. Are you calling a Lyft or walking?”
I gesture in the direction of my apartment a few blocks away. “I don’t live far. I’ll walk.”
He gives a crisp nod. “Then I’ll walk you. And don’t say I don’t have to.”
With a laugh, I gesture to the sidewalk. “I won’t say that.”
As we head down the block, we pass a group of fans decked out in Cougars gear, still a little rowdy from the team’s victory, which secured them a Wild Card spot. A guy in glasses recognizes Chance, thrusts an arm in the air, and shouts, “Go, Cougs.”
“Go, Cougs,” Chance replies.
“So, I’m a little torn on something,” I say once we turn on the next block.
“Yeah? What’s that?”
“Who to root for in the playoffs.”
He strokes his bearded jaw as if he’s deep in thought. “Oh. Of course. That sounds like such a difficult dilemma.”
I shrug. “It’s not so easy. I’ve always been a Dragons woman.”
He staggers, clasping a hand over his heart. “You did not just say that.”
“I did,” I say cheekily as we walk on. “More to the point, haven’t you noticed my brother and I love to bicker about team versus family loyalty?”
Chance shakes his head in disbelief. “Grant is my catcher. How can you not be a Cougars fan? I assumed you were simply giving your sibling some sass.”
“You know what they say about making assumptions,” I tease.
He shakes a finger at me. “That’s a reasonable expectation, woman.”
“Maybe it is. But one should always ask.”
“Fine. You have me there. So, I’ll ask now—why are you breaking my heart, Sierra?”
“I grew up a Dragons fan. I loved them when I was younger and old habits die hard,” I admit with a shrug.
“Tell me, then, what’s it going to take to fully convert you to the good side? Even the World Series victory last year wasn’t enough?” His diamond-studded ring glints in the light from the streetlamps along my block.
I flash back to that glorious game—and the night I started having dirty dreams about Chance. I was at the ballpark for the game, and I’d hugged him after the win. His divorce had just been finalized and he was fully single, so maybe that’s why I started thinking about him in all new ways after one celebratory embrace.
“Fine,” I say. “Winning it all last year did help a smidge.”
We stop in front of my place. “Then, Sierra, I will just have to keep trying to convince you.”
His eyes flicker with mischief.
Perhaps, dirty mischief?
Ohhh. I hope that’s a yes. That my people-reading skills are on the ball right now.
Because even in the dark, I’m pretty sure I can read heat in his eyes—speculation in the way they travel up and down my body. The man wants me to ask him up.
And holy hell.
I want to invite him in.
No more noodling over possibilities, no more wondering.
I like the way he looks at me—a lot. His hot gaze sends a zing down my body.
We’re on the brink of something. A crossroads in our friendship where maybe we both want it to go to the next level.
Only, I want to be absolutely positive.
Don’t want to make a mistake. To misread a man again.
I’m the opposite of impulsive. I plan my outfits down to my panties. I schedule my days and the drinks I’ll make at night. And I definitely don’t jump into bed with men.
Even though, I’m pretty sure I finally know where I want all this attraction with Chance to go. I can see the destination and I want to savor the journey. Each fun, flirty step to the bedroom for the very first time.
“Yes, you should keep trying,” I say, officially flirting.
“Then I will,” he says, giving it right back.
I wiggle my fingers in goodbye. “Good night, Chance. Good luck in the playoffs. Maybe I’ll root for you.”
He hums, tossing me a crooked grin. “Maybe I’ll stop by The Spotted Zebra again.”
“Ah, now you’re being convincing.”
“That’s exactly what I want to be,” he says.
And his arms are exactly what I want to feel around me.
So, I slide in for a quick hug, enjoying his warmth, the woodsy clean scent of him. I linger for a little longer and, oh yes, he does too.
When he ends the hug, he gestures to where my blonde hair curls over my shoulder. “By the way, nice pink streak. Glad you changed it from Dragons purple.”
Reflexively, I lift a hand, smoothing the splash of color.
“But pink isn’t the Cougars color,” I point out.
“But it’s not the Dragons color anymore either. So, I’ll take it as a sign to keep up my Be a Cougars Fan campaign,” he says with a grin.
“Keep campaigning, Chance.”
“Count on it,” he says, his voice a little husky.
“And thank you for walking me home. You’re a good guy,” I say as I push open the door to my building.
“And I’m a convincing one,” he says.
And as of tonight, I think he could be a promising one.
It’s a late September evening, and with the way his eyes sparkled in the night, I’m pretty sure I know who I want to be my first.
The man walking away from me.
