The two men had zigzagged across the Atlantic for years, lobbing cannonballs at each other. They’d fought, that much was true. But neither was on the right side of the law.
The suite level elevator doors had opened, so they walked inside.
“Caldwell had letters of authority from King George,” said Dylan, turning to face the glowing red numbers.
“Forged and backdated in 1804,” Lindsay retorted without missing a bead.
“Have you ever seen the originals?” Dylan asked. “Because I’ve seen the originals.”
Kaitlin merely grinned at Zach from beneath her ball cap. “My money’s on Lindsay.”
He took in her fresh face, ruby lips, dark lashes and that enticing little dimple. He caught the scent of coconut, and for a split second he imagined her in a bright bikini, flowers in her hair, on a tropical beach.
“Is it a bet?” she asked, interrupting his thoughts.
“Sorry?” He shook himself back to reality.
“Ten bucks says Lindsay wins.” She held out her hand to seal the deal.
Zach took her small, soft hand in his, shaking slowly, drawing out the touch, his attraction to her buzzing through ever nerve cell in his body. “You’re on.”
The elevator came smoothly to a stop, and they made their way along the wide, carpeted hallway to the luxury suite. For many years, the Harpers and the Gilbys had shared a corporate suite for Mets games. Dylan’s father used them the most often, but they had proven a valuable corporate tool for all of them in wooing challenging clients.
“Wow.” The exclamation whooshed out of Kaitlin as she crossed through the arched entrance and into the big, balconied room. It comfortably held twenty. A waiter was setting out snacks on the countertop bar, next to an ice-filled pail of imported beer and a couple of bottles of fine wine.
“Will you look at this.” Like an excited kid, she beelined across to the open glass doors and out onto the breezy, tiered balcony, where two short rows of private seats awaited them.
Happy to leave Dylan and Lindsay to their escalating debate, Zach followed Kaitlin out.
“So this is how the other half lives,” she said, bracing her hands on the painted metal rail, and gazing out over home plate. Rows of fan-filled seats cascaded below them, and a hum of excitement wafted through the air.
“It works well for entertaining clients.” Zach heard a trace of apology in his voice, and he realized he wanted her to know it wasn’t all about self-indulgence.
“At Shea Stadium, we used to sit over there.” She pointed to the blue seats high behind third.
“Was that when you were a kid?”
She shook her head. “It was when we were in college.” And a wistful tone came into her voice. “My first live game was sophomore year.”
“So, you were a late bloomer?” He shifted to watch her profile, wondering what had prompted the sadness.
“As a kid, I watched as many as I could on TV.” She abruptly turned to face the suite, and her tone went back to normal. “You got any beer in there?”
“No live games as a kid?” he persisted, seeing an opening to get to know her on a more personal level.
“Not a lot of money when I was a kid.” She sounded defiant. He could tell he was being dared to probe further.
He opened his mouth to ask, but a cheer came up from the crowd as the players jogged onto the field.
Kaitlin clapped her hands. And by the time the din had abated, Zach decided to leave it alone. He patted one of the balcony chairs in the front row. “Have a seat. I’ll bring you a beer.” Two stairs up, he twisted back. “You want chips or something?”
“Hot dog?” she asked.
He couldn’t help but grin at the simple request. “One hot dog, coming up.”
Back inside the suite, while Dylan explained some of the finer points of King George’s Letters of Authority, the waiter quickly organized hot dogs and beer.
In no time, Zach was settled next to Kaitlin, and the game was under way.
As the Mets went up to bat, they ate their loaded hot dogs. Between bites, she unselfconsciously cheered for the hits and groaned at the strikes. Zach found himself watching her more than he watched the players.
After the final bite of her hot dog, she licked a dab of mustard from the pad of her thumb. The gesture was both subconscious and sexy. Somehow, it looked remarkably like a kiss.
“That was delicious,” she said, grinning around the tip of her thumb. “Thanks.”
He tried to remember the last time he’d dated a woman who enjoyed the simple pleasure of a hot dog. Lobster, maybe, caviar, certainly, and expensive champagne was always a winner. But the finer things had mattered to his dates, his money had always mattered.