Pitching for Her Love
Read Pitching for Her Love Online
Authors: Tori Blake
Tags: #sweet romance, #clean romance, #clean and wholesome romance, #modern romance
Pitching For Her Love
Book 1
Tori Blake
Copyright © 2015 Tori Blake
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher
Prologue
H
e was still talking. How could he
still
be talking? What was he talking about? I didn’t even know. I had starting examining a chip in my nail polish in my peripheral vision about three minutes ago, and now it was all I could think about. I’m pretty sure I was still making eye contact. Yes, I was still making eye contact, and I was even nodding and smiling at the appropriate times, but that tiny chip in my once perfect red nail was much more important.
“So, Grace, what is it that you said you did?” he asked. This was the first time he had addressed me all night, and I was startled, momentarily forgetting what exactly it was that I indeed did.
“Oh, I uh—sorry.” I cleared my throat. “I’m a content writer for
Top Press
.”
At this he chuckled condescendingly, and I had to shove a piece of bread into my mouth to keep from scowling. Had we really not even ordered yet?
“
Top Press
? Isn’t that a tabloid?” he asked, pulling another piece of bread from the basket and dragging it through the sloppily poured olive oil on his hors d’oeuvres plate.
I straightened up. Yes,
Top Press
had, until recently, specialized in the seedier side of journalism, but they had turned a corner way before I had come on board. Anyone with half a brain, anyone who even looked at an issue, would see that the content was on board.
“Actually we’ve come a long way in the past few years. We had an interview with our female members of Congress last month and—”
She wasn’t going to add that it had been about their daily beauty routines, but he had already looked away anyway.
“I’ve just never seen journalism as a sustainable career. I mean sure, it’s great when you’re young enough to write stuff that people care about, but I mean, it’s just not something that has any stability. No offense,” he added quickly.
I wasn’t sure what to say. I was used to people being critical of my career. Despite its turnaround,
Top Press
was nowhere near the prestige of the other top publications in Chicago. And yes, I mostly wrote about makeup, skin care, fashion, and lifestyle, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t important. Someone needed to report on the nightlife and restaurants, and I knew I had a strong following. In fact, my friends and I had recently been featured in a piece for a very popular club opening in a much more popular newspaper.
Just four years ago I had been living in a studio apartment with three other girls, trying to make ends meet by freelancing and working as a server, when I finally caught my big break with a passion piece I wrote on the importance of a quality smoky eye. The beauty editor for
Top Press
called me and asked if I’d be willing to write a weekly makeup column, and the rest was history.
Top Press
gave me a shot when no one else would, and for that I would always be grateful. I didn’t feel like I needed to write about world politics to be relevant, and I didn’t think writing about beauty made me less intelligent.
It didn’t seem my blind date was aware he had insulted me and was continuing to talk about his life. He did something with stocks, or bonds, and had a sister who was marrying a lawyer. His condo was being remodeled and he had to stay in the Langham for the time being. According to him, it was a tragic crime what they were doing to the backsplash in his kitchen. I listened, politely, while my fingers furiously texted Megan beneath the table. Then I flicked the volume switch to “on” and waited.
I continued to listen as he recited information about the state of the international market for treasuries and the U.S. credit rating, which to some may have sounded impressive and educational. I took the last few sips of my Sauvignon Blanc. His scotch sat on the table, virtually untouched.
Just then, my phone went off, causing the people next to us to look over in disgust. I feigned embarrassment and said, “Oh goodness, I am so sorry, but”—looking at the wide iPhone screen—“this is my sister. I should really get it.”
He nodded, giving his permission, but I had already unlocked the phone and put it to my ear.
“Carrie? I’m on a date. Can I call you back?” I asked.
“This is your fake emergency call. Make it quick, I’m watching
The Bachelor
,” Megan said through a mouthful of something. Probably ice cream; I was jealous.
“What’s wrong? What happened?” I said, my voice somewhat heightened and concerned. I looked over to my date, whose name I’m pretty sure was Garret, or Gabe, or something, and mouthed, “
Sorry.”
“You know, I really thought you’d like this guy,” Megan said.
“Well is she going to be okay?” I asked.
“Come on, he’s cute, right?” Megan said.
“Okay okay, I’m coming. Just send me the address,” I said.
“Call me when you get home,” Megan said and hung up.
“Yes, right away. Thanks, Carrie,” I said, hanging up the phone, putting on my best “visibly shocked” face, and turning to Garret/Gabe. “I am so, so sorry. That was my sister. Apparently my mother has had a stroke and I need to go,” I said as I stood up from the table. I pulled my wallet out and laid some money over my empty place to cover the cost of our drinks.
“Oh that’s not necessary,” he said, trying to hand the money back to me. His eyes were a dark green and would have been very beautiful on someone else. For a moment, I felt bad that I was leaving, felt bad that I was using this trick yet again. I knew it was a bit cheap, and that to many it would have been obvious, but Garret, or Gabe, could not have been less suspicious.
“Please, I insist,” I said, pushing in my chair. “I do hope you’ll forgive me.”
“Of course,” he said, standing. He was tall, though shorter than me by an inch in my heels. He reached into his jacket pocket with the effortless ease of someone who did this regularly and handed me a business card. “My cell phone number is on there. Just let me know if everything is all right.”
A nice gesture, I remember thinking, as I walked out the door into the cool autumn evening, but from the look on his face I was sure he couldn’t care less if everything was “all right.” I had a friend in college who got business cards made up, and when he got drunk at parties he would hand them out to everyone he saw. It was his version of networking, but really it made him look pompous and ridiculous.
I looked at the card. Greg, his name was Greg.
I walked four blocks in the direction of Chicago General, in case he happened to leave the restaurant after me and see me head off in the direction of my apartment instead. But once it appeared the coast was clear, I hailed a cab and took off toward Wicker Park. The walk wasn’t too far, only another mile or so, but I was already thinking about the bottle of Prosecco I had chilling in the fridge and the comfy pajamas I had thrown in the dryer before I left.
It only took the cab a few minutes to pull up outside my building, the first floor of which was probably the oldest bookstore in Chicago, but I wasn’t sure.
There was something relieving about the sound of the deadbolt turning as I locked myself in the apartment, as if I were finally free and safe. I was lucky to have this place, I reflected, as I often did, as I walked across the wide hardwoods and admired the crown molding. It had high ceilings, original trim, and was in a really great area of the city. I was close to the restaurants and bars I frequented with my friends while still having a happy neighborhood vibe that I loved.
I walked past the full-length mirror in my hallway, a massive thing in an eight-foot frame that I’d had to pay two men to bring up the three flights of stairs, lean precariously against the wall, and then move twice when I decided I liked it better somewhere else. I scrunched my face in disappointment as I looked at my reflection. Tonight had been a waste of a perfectly good dress. Not just a good dress, a
great
dress, my favorite one in fact; it was a slinky, black Herve Leger that hugged my curves in all the right ways. When I paired it with my nude Jimmy Choos, I felt like a super model.
Tonight, however, I just felt defeated. Not that I had expected anything, and not that I really
wanted
anything, but bad dates were discouraging nonetheless. I shook my head and pressed on down the hall to the bathroom. It didn’t take long to wash my makeup off, yank the old flannel pajama pants from the dryer, and grab the chilled bottle from the fridge. As I was pulling a glass down from the whitewashed cabinet, I remembered that Greg had asked me to text him and let him know everything was okay. Megan had also asked that I call her when I got home.
I set my glass, brimming with the pale bubbly wine, on the end table and pulled out Greg’s card. I texted him a quick, “It’s Grace, sorry about tonight...everything is okay.” It seemed slightly impersonal and a bit curt, but I didn’t really care, and, if I was being honest, I didn’t think he would either. I didn’t wait for a response before calling Megan, pressing the phone between my right ear and shoulder while turning on the television and reaching for my glass.
“How’s your sick mom?” she answered, and though her tone was sarcastic, I could see her good-natured smirk vividly, as if she were right beside me.
“Oh, shut up,” I said. I had run the fake emergency call scheme with her multiple times before, and I was sure I would have to again. I took a sip of my Prosecco and leaned back against the fluffy, soft cushion on the back of the couch.
The Bachelor
elimination from last week was playing on the large screen that splayed across the opposite wall.
“I’m sorry, Grace,” Megan said. “I really thought he might have been nice. He works with Lauren’s husband and she has always spoken highly of him.”
Lauren was Megan’s sister, and if I was still being honest, she was a bit arrogant and boring as well, but I didn’t say that.
“I wish I could have made it to dinner at least,” I said. “Spice has been on my restaurant bucket list for a while, but I just couldn’t do it.”
“Oh well. We have a couple of events this week that should cheer you up,” Megan said.
“I don’t need cheering up,” I said indignantly, staring at the television. “What I need is for this girl to go home! She has a boyfriend! Did you see last week’s episode?”
And with that, our conversation took a turn into much more pleasant waters. Megan hadn’t seen last week’s episode of
The Bachelor
, so I filled her in during the commercial breaks and we stayed on the phone until the show was over and my bottle was nearly empty. When we hung up, I noticed that Greg never bothered to text me back, which after my few glasses of wine did not bother me as much as it might have otherwise.
I put the glass in the sink and the bottle back in the refrigerator before shuffling down the hall to brush my teeth. I examined myself in the mirror above the sink as I got toothpaste foam all over my lips; I had never been a neat tooth brusher. I need to get my eyebrows done again, I thought as I brushed. Having amazing skin and great brows was a curse, I had realized growing up, because as soon as one hair was out of place, or a blemish appeared, everyone felt the need to point it out. The same was true with my makeup, which I had become fairly proficient at by the end of high school. It was rare that I left the house without a pretty intense smoky eye, but when I did, everyone made sure to ask if I was sick. It was then that I remembered the chipped nail from dinner and made a mental note to make an appointment at the salon for this weekend just as I was falling asleep.
I
walked to work the next morning, which made me a little later than I had anticipated, but not by much. I stopped at the Starbucks in the lobby of my building to pick up a latte and chat with the barista, who had been working in this building as long as I had. He was a sweet kid who always gave me a little extra whipped cream, and I always tipped. I also saw that they had put pumpkin bread out for the first time this year, so I asked for a piece of that as well.
“Excellent choice!” he said with the enthusiasm of a California surfer, though his tomato-sauce curls and freckles put him more in line with the Boston Irish.
“Has Bernie been by yet?” I asked, pulling a ten out of my wallet and handing it over. Bernie was short for Bernadette, Bernadette Combs to be exact, and she was my boss.