National Singles Day by Casey Morales

Ladies & gentlemen, that sound indicates a hilarious ride ahead . . .

The moment I stepped onto the plane and Jack handed me a flute of champagne, I knew I was in trouble.
Our hands brushed, and I lost myself in his crystalline gaze.
Gah! Just stop!
That sounds like some kind of sappy romance. I’m a freakin’ baseball player, a strong guy, a real dude. Sure, I play for the Memphis Mangos, basically the Harlem Globetrotters of America’s pastime, but I’m a serious player, doggonit.
I would never turn to mush or have wobbly legs over a guy, certainly not in front of a planeload of men who’d love nothing more than to give me sh.. for the next twelve days of our vacation.
And I would never give him my phone number and email address, then let him fly me to his hometown for a five-day first date.
That would be insane, right?
Man, it was awesome. He was so amazing and hot and . . .
And yes, every time Jack looks at me, my world tilts. When that stupid curl falls across his forehead and refuses to stay back, no matter how many times I shove it into place for him, I swoon just a little bit more.
But I don’t need a man. I’m single and happy. I’m totally self-sufficient. Romance is for wimps.
And then he kissed me and . . .
Man, I’m screwed.