“You made it,” Trevor hooted, leaning in to hug Emily. “Feeling better, I assume?”

Backing away from him with a weak smile on her face and a cough to top it off, she answered, “No, I don’t feel better, so you might not want to hug me.” Trevor smiled and pulled her into his chest despite her warning. She looked up to him. “Trevor, I’m serious. I’m as contagious as they come right now.”

He squeezed her tighter and laughed. “Em, I have enough alcohol running through me right now to kill off any fucking germs you might spread.”

Managing a laugh, she returned his hug. “Alright then, but you asked for it.” He smiled at her. “Happy birthday, big man. What’s the number tonight, the big three-zero?”

“Not quite. The ripe young age of twenty-nine,” he answered, snaking his arm around Fallon’s waist. He flicked his eyes down to her. “And what a year it’s gonna be.”

Fallon leaned up to kiss him and then looked at Emily. “I’m a lucky girl.”

“You are a lucky girl, and he’s a lucky guy, too. Don’t forget that,” Emily smiled. “I love the new color.”

Fallon fluffed her crimson hair to the side. “Do you? I’m not used to one color at a time.”

“I do. It’s becoming of you.” Emily looked around. “Where’s Olivia and Tina?”

“Apparently, you’re not the only one sick in Manhattan tonight,” Trevor answered. “Tina didn’t feel good, so Olivia took her home.”

Emily nodded and settled in a seat next to Dillon. He was ordering a few shots and steadily on his way into deeper alcohol oblivion.

“If you’ll excuse me,” Trevor continued, “I’m gonna go get my sweat on with my hot lady here.”

Emily watched as Trevor and Fallon disappeared onto the dance floor.

Over the next half hour, Emily and Gavin exchanged nothing more than the occasional apprehensive glance. She listened to him and Dillon talk about baseball. The Yankees had made it into the playoffs, and game three was currently being displayed across several large flat-screen televisions throughout the bar. Their rival—go figure—was the Baltimore Orioles.

Emily had to smile at that.

Unable to numb her anxiety with alcohol because of the medication she was on, she endured the situation as best as she could—paying no attention to either man. As she accepted a glass of ice water from the bartender, her cell phone lighting up in her purse caught her attention.

Pulling it out, she noticed it was a text from a number she didn’t know: I must admit…you play the game very well…

With furrowed brows, having no idea who it was, she texted back: Who is this?

After a few seconds, the reply: However…your “birds” have no clue how to play the game…so it all evens out…

Snapping her head up in Gavin’s direction, her heart skipped a beat. Though he was perched on the opposite side of Dillon, he was in Emily’s line of sight. Staring at her, his smile was wide and inhibited. She flicked her eyes in Dillon’s direction. It was obvious that he was paying no mind to her or Gavin, clearly more intoxicated than when they first arrived. He was in the midst of a conversation regarding the game with another patron as they laughed and shared a few shots together.

Another incoming text vibrated her phone: Take a look at the score…

Nervous, she looked over at Gavin again.

Smiling, he leaned his chin in the palm of his hand and gestured to one of the televisions with his bottle of beer.

Quickly averting her eyes to the screen where it was highlighting a Yankees lead by five, she let out the breath she was holding. She looked back to him where yet another smile broke out across his face.

Emily texted back: How did you get my number?

His reply: Admit that your birds don’t have a chance against my Yankees…and perhaps I will release that information…

Coughing, she cocked a brow and looked at him.

He smiled and casually shrugged.

“The nerve,” she mumbled under her breath as she texted him back: I will do no such thing…

Her eyes shifted to his again. With a perplexed look on his face, he smiled, and she watched as he swiftly ran his fingers across his screen.

He texted: Then you’re left with your original assumption of my personality…I’m a stalker, and you’re my beautiful prey. Boo.

Shaking her head at the true wiseass he really was, curiosity got the better of her: Fine, my birds aren’t playing their best tonight…

Sighing, she heard Gavin let out a full throaty laugh.

He replied: I’ll make it simple…your team S-U-C-K-S. And since you wouldn’t admit that your birds have no chance against my beloved Yankees, I have the sudden urge to make you…beg. Kinky, right? I’ll be waiting for your response…

Taking a sip of her water, she scoffed. “He’s seriously lost his mind.”

She watched as a superior smile washed over his face.

She began to text him back, letting him know she wouldn’t beg for an answer, but he sent another: I decided I’m in a generous mood tonight since my team is whipping some serious ass. Forget about you begging me…which I know you would’ve…text back the magic word, and I will relinquish the information you so desire. Clue…it starts with pretty…

She rolled her eyes and texted him back: Please…

His answering text was quick: I knew I could get you to beg…Molly.

Now she couldn’t help but laugh. Her text was a little more demanding this time: Emily to you, “stalkerboy”. You didn’t get me to beg for anything. I want the information.

Oh, his smile was teetering between lewd and mischievous when she looked in his direction now.

He responded: You begged, doll, and I’m pretty sure…no, I’m positive…I could get you to beg for plenty of things if given the proper chance to do so. Plenty. But, to answer your question, Olivia gave me your number. I would assume my source doesn’t come as a shock…

She sighed: I disagree with the begging part. I call it being courteous. Not sure how to answer your second statement except to say that you’re an arrogant bastard. No, I’m not shocked about Olivia being your partner in crime…the both of you are certifiably nuts…

Between becoming consumed in her text session with Gavin and the now roaring Yankees fans in the background, Emily didn’t notice that Dillon had disappeared. However, she couldn’t help but notice Gavin staring directly at her with only a barstool separating them now. Her breath hitched in the back of her throat as he closed that distance by sliding over into the seat next to her. Propping his elbow on the bar, his smile was no less cocky than before.

“So, says the ‘arrogant bastard,’” he began, shifting his body to face her, “are you still going to deny that I made you beg?”

The familiarity of his humor-filled voice sent chills down her back. With a smirk, she let out an exasperated breath. “You’re relentless.”

“Always,” he answered evenly. Taking a long pull from his beer, his gaze never left hers. “I figured it was a good way to break the tension hanging in the air.”

“You have a funny way of breaking tension, Gavin.”

“And why do you say that?”

“Let’s see…trying to get me to admit that I was begging.” She answered, crossing her legs, and then quickly added, “Which I wasn’t.”

“You begged, doll, but I’ll let it go.”

Laughing, she shook her head. “I give up; you win.”

He smiled, and for a minute, he let himself drown in her, getting lost in the memory of her touch. “In all seriousness, I figured my little texting skit might go over well,” he said as his eyes shimmered with something akin to an apology behind them. “I’m hoping it did at least.”

He was right; the tension that had built up inside her had seemed to dissipate. Drawing in a deep breath, she nodded. “It did.”

Slowly, he slid a bottle cap over to her and smiled. “Truce?”