Heartless by Winter Renshaw

flattered, as messed up as that is.”
    “I apologize.” Clearing my throat, I straighten my shoulders. “Had no idea I was . . . looking at you like that.”
    She sits back, eyes squinting like she’s trying to gauge the authenticity of my apology.
    “I didn’t bring you here to hit on you,” I say.
    Her arms fold. “I know. You brought me here to accuse me of following you, which is the staunch polar opposite of hitting on me, and I believe we established that about ten minutes ago.”
    Aidy’s gaze falls to my jaw, drops to my shoulder, and then traces the outline of my biceps before settling on my folded hands.
    “So you’re a pitcher?” she asks.
    “Was,” I say. “ Was a pitcher.”
    “I don’t watch sports.” She swats her hand before reaching for her glass. Lifting it to her full lips, she takes a small sip. Her drink remains mostly full, and I have to give her credit for that. Nothing about Aidy is insecure or nervous, and if the circumstances were different . . .
    “You don’t watch any sports?” I ask.
    She juts her lips forward and shakes her head. “Went to a Yankees game once. It was okay. The beer and hotdogs were good.”
    Chuckling, I take another swig of my beer and find a rare hint of a half-smile fixed to my face as I look at her. Fortunately, the beard hides most of it. I’ve never met a woman as simultaneously endearing and sexy and unapologetically genuine as Aidy. She’s not trying to impress me. She’s not pounding drink after drink. Hell, she’s not even trying to seduce me despite the fact that the blouse she’s wearing doesn’t seem to want to stay put.
    I think it’s safe to say Aidy Kincaid is officially not a stalker.
    I exhale, nonchalantly watching her from across the table as she gazes at the throng of patrons outside the door. Everything about her is smooth and confident, from the way she moves to the way she breathes.
    My blood warms, and a sleepy feeling settles in. It’s going to be an early morning tomorrow with a seven o’clock call time. Something tells me I could sit here all night shooting the shit with this spitfire paradox, but I can’t show up tomorrow morning with beer on my breath and bags under my eyes.
    “Anyway.” I slap my hand on the table before pushing to stand up.
    “Oh.” Aidy glances up, her blue eyes round and curious. “So we’re done here? I take it you’re confident I’m no longer a threat to your personal safety?”
    I lift a brow. “I believe so, yes. How about you? You feeling good about this?”
    She slinks a small yellow purse across her body and hoists her makeup case onto the table, exhaling. “Yeah. I think so.”
    We move toward the doorway, and for a moment I consider offering to help her carry her makeup case, but the last thing I need is some genius with a smartphone snapping a picture of me carrying makeup through a bar. Knowing my luck, a picture like that would go viral in under twenty-four hours. Besides, I don’t think Aidy would accept my help anyway.
    The moment we step outside, we’re wrapped in a blanket of cool evening air. Aidy stands a couple feet away from me, but the first thing I notice is the way the top of her head fits neatly beneath my chin.
    “I just want you to know,” she says, pulling in a long breath, “everything this week, it truly was coincidence. Honest to God. At least on my end.”
    I shove my hands in my pockets.
    We stand, eyes locked, bodies aligned, for what feels like an endless minute.
    “Oh, shoot.” She lightly drags her foot across the pavement, making a scuffing noise. “I forgot to pay for my drink.”
    I wave her off. “My buddy owns this place. The drinks were free.”
    She wears a concerned expression. “Are you sure? I can run back in and pay . . .”
    “Yeah, no. You’re good.”
    Aidy exhales, her shoulders rising and falling. “And before I go, I want you to know that journal I found? I really did find it on your doorstep. I read most of it, and then I