Are you sure? Because it’s no trouble. My florist says lilies are in season right now.

I’m not the kind of girl who needs an endless supply of flowers. It’s wasteful.

And what makes you think I even like lilies?

Wait… You don’t? [sad emoji]

Not that it matters, but no. I don’t.

Well then what DO you like?

I pause, my finger hovering over the keyboard, and let out a low groan. “Ugh! Why am I even entertaining this right now?”

I like roses.

But NOT the kind that comes in some big obnoxious bouquet with baby’s breath and obscene amounts of tissue paper. So don’t even THINK about it!

Boo. You’re no fun.

Who said I was fun?

So… no bouquets of lilies. Or roses. Got it.

Goodnight, Nash.

[kissy face emoji] [single rose emoji]

By the time his two weeks are almost up, I find myself nervous about seeing Nash in person again. Summer must pick up on this when she offers to bring over my favorite Chicago-style deep-dish pizza and a tub of Benji’s favorite ice cream the night of his last away game.

“Nash’s batting average is up almost fifteen points since he joined the Sweepers,” Benji announces, not taking his eyes off the massive TV screen. “And his fielding percentage is the best on the team. Look how fast he moves!”

Summer takes a large bite of pizza and grins. “The only stats I’m measuring are how good number thirty-two looks in those pants. Seriously, baseball uniforms must have been designed by a woman.”

I roll my eyes at her, but my gaze drifts back to the screen where Nash is positioning himself at shortstop, knees bent and completely focused on the next play.

Something about his intensity makes my mouth go dry.

“What do you think, Ave? Those baseball pants doing anything for you yet?” Summer nudges me with her elbow.

“I’m watching the game, not rating the players.” I take a long sip of Diet Coke, hoping to hide the fact that I’m practically melting from the inside out.

The truth is, while I couldn’t care less about any of the other players, I can’t take my eyes off Nash. The way he moves with confidence. His smile every time he makes a good play… And it’s infuriating how good he looks in his pants. Especially in high definition.

What’s even more infuriating is how I can’t ignore my growing attraction after all the back-and-forth texting that’s been going on between us.

“Yeah, you’re totally watching the game,” Summer whispers so Benji can’t hear. “That’s why you haven’t blinked since Nash came on screen.”

I throw a couch pillow at her head and spend the last three innings pretending not to be interested—even though we both know nothing could be farther from the truth.

The next day, I’m straining a pot of spaghetti into the sink when I get another text from Nash.

Plane just landed. See you soon.

My heart does an annoying little flip as I dump the noodles back into the pot.

I glance at the meat sauce simmering on the stove and suddenly feel ridiculous.

He’s probably used to Jorge making four-course dinners with pasta from scratch, and here I am with jarred sauce and boxed noodles like I’m hosting a college potluck.

What if Nash hates it?

I’m stirring the sauce when several quick honks sound from the driveway, and Benji leaps from the couch where he’s been glued in front of the TV all afternoon.

“Nash is back!” he shouts, sprinting toward the entryway.

“Wait—Benji!” But he’s already gone, the front door slamming behind him.

I hurry to turn off the burner and wipe my hands on a dish towel before following him outside. By the time I step onto the porch, Benji is halfway across the lawn.

Nash drops his duffel bag just in time to catch Benji, who propels himself forward at an impressive speed.

Nash lifts Benji into a bear hug and spins him around before setting him back on his feet. It’s a sight that makes my heart squeeze.

“I got something for you,” Nash says, reaching into his bag. He pulls out a baseball and tosses it to Benji. “It’s the game-winner from last night. Thought you might want it for your collection.”

Benji’s eyes grow impossibly wide as he catches the ball in his chest. “Your home run ball! And you’re giving it to me? For real? ”

Nash nods and ruffles Benji’s hair. “Who else would I give it to?”

“Wow! Thanks, Nash!” Benji clutches the ball like it’s made of gold. “I’m gonna’ put it somewhere extra safe where no one can find it.“ He races past me into the house, not even acknowledging my existence.

Nash turns to his driver, an older man in a dark suit. “James, can you take the rest of my bags in through the garage? Thanks.”

James nods, and as he disappears into the garage, Nash turns and begins walking toward me.

I freeze, suddenly unsure how much eye contact to make or where to put my hands. Then, in a panic, I glance down to check my shirt for spaghetti sauce splatters.

When I look back up, Nash is much closer. Close enough to smell his Tom Ford cologne and to see the flecks of gold in his green eyes.

There’s something noticeably different about his expression this time, but with it comes the same smolder that makes my pulse race.

He reaches up, and I hold my breath as his fingers gently brush a loose strand of hair behind my ear.

“You look amazing,” he says softly.

“I—I’m making spaghetti,” I blurt out, immediately wanting to smack myself for being such a spaz.

His mouth curves into that infuriating half-smile. “Sounds perfect.”

He looks down at my mouth and for a moment, I think he’s going to kiss me. Instead, He opens the lapel of his sport coat and pulls out a single, long-stemmed rose.

“I know you said no bouquets, so...”

He looks me deep in the eyes, and suddenly, I feel like I’m on some bizarre episode of The Bachelor , waiting for the coveted one-on-one date rose.

Feeling equal parts mortified by the comparison and terrified by how accurate it feels, I accept the rose. My fingers brush against his, and the contact sends an electric current that shoots up my arms and travels all the way to my toes.

Is it crazy that I might actually want to throw my name into the dating hat for a change?

Because—like always—Summer makes a good point. Maybe it won’t kill me to make a little room in my life for something other than work and worry. And as I stare into the eyes of Chicago’s most eligible bachelor, I think I know exactly where I want to start.