Pitching for Her Love Read Online Free PDF Page B

the blue dress in my size and had changed into a muted, rust-colored tank top and black jeans with ankle booties.  It was the kind of outfit that looked so chic on Amanda but would have looked like garbage on anyone else, including the mannequin who wore it in the front of the store.
    Amanda convinced Megan to put on the black and gold dress while I slipped into the back and dressed in the blue one.  By the time shoes and bags were decided on we were running late, but that was expected.
    “I called a car,” said Amanda, leaning in toward one of the many mirrors in the store and applying the lipstick I had loaned her for the evening.  She had talked me into applying just a little mascara and some color on her lips.
    Megan walked up to us in her six-inch heels, still barely eye level with Amanda or myself, running her delicate hands through her long, deep red hair.
    “Do you think anyone has more fun than we do?” she asked.
    “No one,” I said.

Chapter 6
    T he night of the wine bar opening was still on my mind Thursday morning as I sat in front of my computer, trying once again to write my “Sexiest Men in Sports” piece.  After a summer of club openings and outdoor events, it had been nice to finally do something a little more sophisticated.  Maybe sophisticated wasn’t the right word. I don’t think there had ever been more wine consumed on the planet, but it felt fancy with the delicate crystal goblets and warm, inviting ambiance.
    Simona Beck had indeed shown up, and with her had come a swarm of photographers.  She had been gracious, joining us for a half glass of Malbec and sharing a few words with Amanda before disappearing out the back.  The paparazzi managed to snag a few shots of us among the regulars, and one particularly flattering shot of Megan and me made it into one of the tabloids.
    “Look how tall I look!” she had exclaimed when she saw it, thankfully not mentioning her stunted height for another six hours.
    Bernie, however, had not been impressed, and she had pushed up our deadline by a week.  I glanced over at Megan, and her fingers were flying across the keyboard, the glasses she occasionally wore perched on her delicate nose and her round eyes wide and focused.  I found myself writing a sentence and then deleting it, and then finally getting a paragraph, rereading it, and deciding it was terrible.  It was a vicious cycle and time was running out. I knew I needed to put something down or Bernie would send me back to the world of freelance work and drugstore makeup.
    I opened the email Peter had sent me of the shots that were chosen for the piece on Grayson Hunter, four in total.  I double clicked on the first one and it opened, full size, on my screen.  I felt myself flush as I looked over the photograph, which was perfect.  Grayson was looking away from the camera, his eyes somewhat squinted in laughter at something someone was saying.  His mouth was open and I could hear his laugh from memory, three rows of dimples framing a wide smile of perfect teeth.  The sunlight from that day shone off his bronzed shoulders and chest. A backward cap kept his slightly tousled hair in place, and his stomach rippled with sculpted abs.
    “Oooh, looks like someone has seen the error of their ways,” came Megan’s voice over my shoulder, and I jumped, gasping in surprise.  I minimized the picture.
    “You scared me!” I said.
    “He is so hot. I don’t blame you,” she said and winked.
    “It’s not that!  I just—” I started, but couldn’t finish.  I just what?  I had never had an issue like this with an article before.  Maybe it was that Grayson felt more like a real person than anyone I had ever interviewed.  Maybe he felt more like a real person than anyone I knew in real life too.
    “Someone’s got a crush!” said Megan, and before I could protest, she walked off toward the break room to refill her coffee cup.  I stewed angrily at my desk.  It wasn’t a crush, I