I’m expecting Austin to steer us to Mavericks, so I can meet the rest of these college pals that I’ve heard so much about. But instead, we wind up at East River Park near the baseball diamonds. I’m wondering if I’m about to meet his former teammates, when I realize that every person on the field is way too short for that. This is…
“Little League,” Austin announces. “My nephew plays, and I’m the coach. Not what you were expecting?”
“Not what I was expecting,” I agree.
He walks me to the bleachers, where I spot a familiar face.
“You remember my sister, Monica?” Austin asks.
“Of course.” I wave happily in greeting. Once we were introduced, it became impossible not to notice the resemblance. She’s tall and lovely, with Austin’s same cheekbones and dark brows.
“Nice to see you again, Jenn.” She flashes me a smile. “Please, sit.”
“Thanks,” I say, settling in beside her.
“I should get up there,” Austin says.
“Good luck, Coach,” I say.
A look passes between Austin and Monica, like some kind of sibling telepathy. If I had to guess, Austin is warning her not to overshare embarrassing stories from childhood.
I set my bag down, and one side of the tote lags open.
Monica’s mouth quirks into a smile. “You always travel with yarn?”
I laugh. “Often, yes. But, in this case, my knitting circle had a charity event this morning.”
“And Austin crashed it?” she asks.
“With permission. And he brought snacks, so he was a hit.”
“Interesting…” Monica says. She’s hard to read, especially with mirrored sunglasses on.
I want her to like me.
The thought is unsettling and reminds me of Millie’s warning. Starry-eyed and swooning? Yup, sounds about right.
“So, which one is Nico?” I ask, turning my attention to the field.
“He’s right there, looking at his uncle like he hung the moon.” She points to a lanky kid nearest to Austin.
But her description isn’t very helpful because every kid seems to have angled around Austin. They congregate around him like wide-eyed little goldfish. Austin crouches down to their level, giving a pep talk, cheering them on. It’s enough to make my heart flutter.
And my ovaries.
I clear my throat. “Austin says Nico’s a great kid.”
“He is,” Monica agrees. “Nico’s dad hasn’t been in the picture, but Austin is always there. Even when he was on the road all the time, he made sure to call in for storytime and morning updates.”
Wow. When Austin mentioned his family in the city, I didn’t realize he played such a big role.
Monica must be reading my thoughts because she adds, “Austin plays it down, of course. Calls Nico his buddy, acts like it’s all good fun—and it is. But Austin is the male role model in Nico’s life. He knows that and takes it seriously.”
“That’s sweet,” I admit, trying not to tug at my collar. Is it getting even hotter?
“You like kids?” Monica asks, mildly.
And now I’m about to fan myself from nerves. My mom may nag me about kids, but most people don’t ask the blunt question outright. “I do. My best friend just had her first baby, and she lives down the hall, so I’m getting a crash course. It’s fun—and hard.”
“Tell me about it.” Monica laughs. “I was the first of my friends to have kids, and I had no idea what I was doing. But you learn fast. And next thing you know, you’re…”
“Cheering for the first up to bat at the Little League game?” I finish.
“Exactly.” Then, with one hand shielding her mouth, she yells, “You’ve got this, baby.”
Nico glares back at her before he steps up to the plate. “He finds me mortifying,” Monica says, happily.
Nico hits a single and darts to first base. I clap loudly while Monica jumps to her feet, cheering. When she sits back down, she asks, “Do you follow baseball?”
I give a gentle snort. “I had to google ‘bunt’ after Austin said it in a meeting last week. I thought he was referencing bundt cake in a way I didn’t understand.”
Monica laughs. “Oh, okay. You really, really don’t follow baseball.”
“Extremely not,” I say, shrugging. “One of Austin’s friends called him ‘Nine’ in front of me, and it took me hours to piece together that it was probably his baseball number. I was like… Is this slang? Is this an inside joke?”
“Baseball number,” Monica agrees. Next, she asks me how I came to work for Austin, and I tell the version where I get a recruiter call and Austin sweeps me away—almost the whole truth.
Monica’s questioning rolls on: Are you seeing anyone else? (No, though Austin and I actually haven’t talked about exclusivity.) Isn’t dating in New York such a wild ride? (Hell yes. I tell her the foot fetish story, and she counters with a bone-chilling tale about a date who wrote flash poetry inspired by her, in real time.) Do I have family nearby? (Long Island.)
“I know I’m asking a lot of questions,” Monica says eventually.
“It’s okay,” I tell her, and I truly mean it. “When my best friend was dating, I basically cross-examined every guy who made it past a week.”
This gets a smile. “Exactly. Austin’s ex did a number on him, which has made me extra big-sister-y in the past year.”
I pause. Austin has never said much about his ex, and I certainly don’t need him to detail every past relationship to me. But it does make me wonder: What happened there?
I keep quiet, hoping Monica will elaborate. But she changes the subject, and the game whizzes by. Monica is one of those people I could talk to for hours—a natural fit. We part ways after the game, with the promise of getting lunch.
“Embargo on talking about me,” Austin suggests quickly, as he overhears these plans.
“Aw,” Monica says, sweetly. “Not a chance.”
After the game, we wind up at Austin’s apartment with plans to order from the Thai restaurant he swears by. He pours two glasses of crisp white wine and offers up a tour, which of course I’m desperate for. His place is beautiful, full of house plants and a few mid-century modern pieces. The palette is neutral, but the place still feels so warm. The kitchen chairs are upholstered, comfortable for a long dinner party. The couch looks like you could sink in for a nap, with a dozen pillows and a folded blanket waiting. This home is so clearly Austin’s soft place to land.
“I’m impressed,” I admit.
“Expecting a bare mattress in the corner without a box spring?” Austin teases.
“I mean, I know you’re kidding, but you’d be surprised.”
I take a seat on the couch. “I need to pause and see if—yep—this couch is like a cloud. Oh my God.”
Austin laughs, joining me. “I know. Best purchase by far. I read probably a thousand online reviews before pulling the trigger.”
I smile. Always the data with him. “Did you decorate this place yourself?” I ask.
Austin wobbles his hand in a ‘sort of’ motion. “I had a lot of ideas. Being on the road so much, I had time to think about what I wanted. My buddy Flynn—the one doing the spa construction—kept an eye out for solid antique pieces he knew I’d like. And my sister has a good eye for this stuff, so she helped a lot.”
“I like your sister,” I say.
He gives me a wary look. “She didn’t give you a hard time?”
I shrug and take a sip of my wine. “The usual inquisition, like any good sister would. Told me a little about you.”
Austin’s eyes dart to mine. “Does that mean she told embarrassing stories?”
“No,” I say, laughing. “Although now I definitely want to know what that would entail. She told me about Nico and how you’ve always been around.”
“Of course,” he says quickly. “He’s my buddy.”
I smile, realizing he used the same words that Monica predicted he would.
“I think it’s great,” I say.
“And an education, for sure,” Austin agrees. “I mean, I always knew I wanted kids someday, but I had no idea what the hell it meant up close. But being Nico’s uncle has only made me want to be a dad more. Because you bond with them in the tough moments and become a team. And I’ve gotten to watch him go from this tiny baby to this cool, smart kid with opinions and a sense of humor.”
My ovaries go off like tiny fireworks.
What in the world? How dare Austin Banks look the way he looks, have that level of talent, and also clearly articulate his feelings, including why he wants to be a dad?
I clear my throat, trying to remain in the conversation while my body screams at me to take off my pants—and his. “Yeah, I feel so lucky to be part of Isla’s life. The first time I babysat, I nearly panicked when she wailed for a few minutes. But then when I figured out the problem, and she fell asleep in my arms? Heaven.”
“It only gets better. Hearing them say your name? Oh my God.” Austin presses a hand over his chest like he can hardly stand it. “I was ‘Aussie’ when Nico first started talking. Monica would send me these videos of Nico watching my games, saying, ‘Aussie swing bat.’ It slayed me.”
I smile at him, a bit overcome by the sweetness of it. But Austin, noticing my silence, goes a bit sheepish.
“Did I take it too far?” he asks. “Sorry. We just started seeing each other, and somehow I’m talking about wanting to be a dad? I didn’t mean to make it seem like—”
“No, I know,” I assure him. In a dating scene where men avoid commitments like it’s gym class dodgeball, Austin has just casually made his long-term hopes known. “I like that you’re straightforward. It’s refreshing.”
“I had an ex who cheated,” Austin says slowly. I pause. “It’s fine—really,” he continues. “I dodged a bullet. But, because of that, honesty means a lot to me. I said I don’t like to play games, and I mean it.”
I gulp. There it is again: Guilt. When I try to swallow, it feels like there’s a wad of gum stuck in my throat. “That makes sense,” I manage.
I drain the last of my wine and set the glass down on the coffee table. Take a deep breath. This is it, the whole point of the date: coming clean.
But Austin stands. “You want to finish the tour before dinner?”
“Sure!” I blurt. OK, wrong moment. “Sorry—I got us off track with the couch testing.”
“That’s okay,” he says, and I recognize the caramelly smoothness of his voice. It’s the one that says things in the dark. “The only other stop is the bedroom.”
“What a line, Banks,” I say, teasing him with an eye roll.
“Suit yourself.” His gaze travels to my mouth, hungrily. “No bedroom.”
I gulp again, but this time, the lust is pushing all my guilt aside. Way, way aside.
“I am really comfortable,” I admit, leaning back against the pillows. “I could just doze right off.”
“Oh, could you?” His hands skate up my bare legs, and I arch my back immediately—my whole body rising to meet his touch. But he doesn’t stop there. Under my dress, his fingertips reach my hips, tracing the lace of the underwear I chose hoping he’d see it. I nearly whimper with anticipation, willing him to touch me more.
“You’re overdressed,” he says, huskily. “Take it off.”
I catch my breath, as Austin tugs my dress over my head. He releases the clasp on my bra for good measure, and I’m about to reach for his shirt when he nudges me back against the pillows.
I’d normally feel self-conscious about this—the angle and softness of my body in broad, if flattering, daylight. Sometimes the small voice in my mind sounds like my mother’s, harping about the perceived flaws. But honestly? In the moments I can block out those little comments and two solid decades of Photoshopped magazines? I think my body is sexy—full and lush. And Austin makes me feel especially sexy, even in the small things. He showed up to my knit-athon to woo my friends. He took me to Little League. He touched me with absolute, outright lust in Palm Springs. At every turn, he’s made it clear that he wants me.
He stares down the length of my body, draped back and waiting for him. He looks like he’s drinking me in, getting tipsy on the anticipation. My cheeks are flushed, but I don’t shift or cover up.
“My God,” he murmurs, shifting so that he’s over me. “Where do I even start?”
“Anywhere,” I breathe. “Everywhere.”
His mouth lands on mine roughly, and the last bit of willpower snaps between us. I part my lips immediately, stroking my tongue against his. The wine lingers, grapefruit and summer, and I moan as Austin feels his way down my body.
We’ll get to the bedroom later.