“Okay. Fine. I actually want to be the person that checks receipts before people exit. You know, when you have unbagged items and they make sure you’re not stealing.”

His smile stretches across his face.

“It’s really a twofer job,” I say. “You get to see all the little things that the store sells that you maybe didn’t know, and you get to call thieves out on their bullshit. Does it get any better than that?”

“Well, while I see the perks you described, I happen to think coaching might be a bit better. Think about it—you don’t even have to work. You just get to play baseball the whole time.”

He shrugs. I’m awash in the warmth of leather in his cologne.

Save me.

My knees wobble, and in case he notices, I make a point to shiver again.

“But you have to consider the weather,” I say, gritting my teeth against the cold. “At least a door greeter works inside.”

His eyes narrow. Before it registers in my head, he reaches for my shoulder. Then, gently, he presses on the corner—effectively guiding me in a half circle.

“I can’t have a conversation with you when you’re literally freezing to death,” he says. “And I don’t have a coat to give you.”

He presses so gently, so lightly, on the back of my shoulder to guide me back to my car. I move one step at a time, with my attention fixed on the exact spot where his fingers press into my sweatshirt.

The contact is just enough to get the job done—get me back to my car. But it’s also just enough to frazzle the connection in my brain.

He reaches around me, brushing the side of my arm with his, and pulls open my car door.

“In you go,” he says.

“I was going to make a joke and say, ‘Thanks, Daddy,’” I say as I collapse into the driver’s seat. “But two things—one, I don’t think my dad ever did anything that thoughtful for me, and two . . .” My cheeks flush. “You know, the obvious.”

He turns his body, angling it toward the street and away from prying eyes.

“You know,” he says before biting his lip. “It’s going to be really hard to go coach a bunch of twelve-year-olds with a hard-on.”

My eyes flip to the crotch of his black workout pants. Sure enough, a bulge causes the fabric to press away from his body. His hand reaches down and adjusts it, and it’s only then that I realize that he’s watching me watch him.

The heat in my face goes up exponentially. I’m glad I can’t see myself because I probably look like a beet.

“If it helps, and it probably doesn’t,” I say, “I didn’t think that through before I said it.”

“It doesn’t. I’ll be replaying that in my head all night now. Thanks.”

He groans, situating himself while staring over the top of my car. Pointedly not at me.