and his family bolted onto a gravelly stretch of moonlit beach and Lucas and Miranda followed slowly behind.
The view stole Miranda’s heart. The dark, orange-pearl moon was partially shrouded by a thin layer of broken clouds and seemed to sit directly before them on the dark sand. The dogs ran at the moon, and Miranda had no doubt that they were capable of dragging it home for their adoring master.
“Did you plan this, too?” she asked.
“What? Walking the dogs?”
“This night. The way the moon scatters its light upon the black waves. The way the breeze holds just enough warmth to feel like a kiss on my skin.”
Lucas gazed at her in awe.
“What…,” she said self-consciously. “Do I still have mustard on my face?”
“You have a poet’s eye, Miranda,” he said. She blushed yet again, and this one, by moonlight, made Lucas take one of her wine glasses so that he could hold her hand. “Your words paint beautiful pictures.”
“It’s easy, when beauty is right in front of you.” And it was. It was in the ocean blue of his eyes and the sultry curves of his lips. It was in the shape and strength of his hand as he offered it to her, to help her over a particularly rocky part of the beach.
“How is it that you decided to become a sportswriter?” he asked.
“My dad used to play baseball, so I grew up with sports, and I like the newspaper business. Women are becoming so dominant in the sporting world, on the field and off. Women’s gymnastics and figure skating have always been popular, and female tennis and softball players galvanized their sports. But now we have women’s professional basketball, we had soccer and now we’re dabbling with football. Of course, the Herald-Star doesn’t give women’s sports the space they deserve, but I’m working on changing that.”
“What sports do you like most?” Lucas stopped at a large outcropping of rock overlooking the sea. He leaped onto it, and took Miranda’s hand to help her up.
“To play or to cover?”
“Both,” he said as they sat.
“I like covering baseball and women’s college basketball. I like playing basketball and tennis, when I can make the time. I was pretty good at volleyball and softball when I was in school.”
“I played football—soccer, to you—and rugby in school.” He poured the wine and handed a glass to Miranda. “I was quite good, actually.”
“Hey, soccer is football to me, too. To half of me, at least. My mother is from Brazil. We used to go there in the summers when my dad retired and started scouting for the major leagues. I follow the Brazilian national team—”
“ Canarinho !” Lucas declared. “ ‘Little canary. ’ ”
“That’s right,” Miranda said. “Because of the yellow jerseys they wear for home games.”
“There’s a saying about football and Brazilians,” Lucas started. “‘The English invented it, and…”
“…the Brazilians perfected it,” Miranda finished. “No truer words were ever spoken.”
“So you’re a staunch supporter of Team Brazil?”
Miranda took a sip of her wine and nodded. “I like a few of the African teams, too. Cameroon’s been so innovative in the past few years, and Ghana’s coming up, too. I love watching soccer matches. Soccer players have the best ass—” She caught herself mid-syllable and finished with, “accents.”
Lucas took off his sweater and folded it. He invited Miranda to use it as a cushion, which she accepted, once she could think straight. I must be drinking this wine too fast, she thought after watching him take off his sweater had made her jaw drop. It’s not like he was topless, she told herself. But just thinking of that image set her cheeks on fire. As he sat in his white T-shirt with the night breeze playing in his hair, Miranda knew that she had to get a hold of herself, and fast. “Did you always want to be a singer?”
“Actually, I tossed about the notion of being an architect. I was keen on building things
The view stole Miranda’s heart. The dark, orange-pearl moon was partially shrouded by a thin layer of broken clouds and seemed to sit directly before them on the dark sand. The dogs ran at the moon, and Miranda had no doubt that they were capable of dragging it home for their adoring master.
“Did you plan this, too?” she asked.
“What? Walking the dogs?”
“This night. The way the moon scatters its light upon the black waves. The way the breeze holds just enough warmth to feel like a kiss on my skin.”
Lucas gazed at her in awe.
“What…,” she said self-consciously. “Do I still have mustard on my face?”
“You have a poet’s eye, Miranda,” he said. She blushed yet again, and this one, by moonlight, made Lucas take one of her wine glasses so that he could hold her hand. “Your words paint beautiful pictures.”
“It’s easy, when beauty is right in front of you.” And it was. It was in the ocean blue of his eyes and the sultry curves of his lips. It was in the shape and strength of his hand as he offered it to her, to help her over a particularly rocky part of the beach.
“How is it that you decided to become a sportswriter?” he asked.
“My dad used to play baseball, so I grew up with sports, and I like the newspaper business. Women are becoming so dominant in the sporting world, on the field and off. Women’s gymnastics and figure skating have always been popular, and female tennis and softball players galvanized their sports. But now we have women’s professional basketball, we had soccer and now we’re dabbling with football. Of course, the Herald-Star doesn’t give women’s sports the space they deserve, but I’m working on changing that.”
“What sports do you like most?” Lucas stopped at a large outcropping of rock overlooking the sea. He leaped onto it, and took Miranda’s hand to help her up.
“To play or to cover?”
“Both,” he said as they sat.
“I like covering baseball and women’s college basketball. I like playing basketball and tennis, when I can make the time. I was pretty good at volleyball and softball when I was in school.”
“I played football—soccer, to you—and rugby in school.” He poured the wine and handed a glass to Miranda. “I was quite good, actually.”
“Hey, soccer is football to me, too. To half of me, at least. My mother is from Brazil. We used to go there in the summers when my dad retired and started scouting for the major leagues. I follow the Brazilian national team—”
“ Canarinho !” Lucas declared. “ ‘Little canary. ’ ”
“That’s right,” Miranda said. “Because of the yellow jerseys they wear for home games.”
“There’s a saying about football and Brazilians,” Lucas started. “‘The English invented it, and…”
“…the Brazilians perfected it,” Miranda finished. “No truer words were ever spoken.”
“So you’re a staunch supporter of Team Brazil?”
Miranda took a sip of her wine and nodded. “I like a few of the African teams, too. Cameroon’s been so innovative in the past few years, and Ghana’s coming up, too. I love watching soccer matches. Soccer players have the best ass—” She caught herself mid-syllable and finished with, “accents.”
Lucas took off his sweater and folded it. He invited Miranda to use it as a cushion, which she accepted, once she could think straight. I must be drinking this wine too fast, she thought after watching him take off his sweater had made her jaw drop. It’s not like he was topless, she told herself. But just thinking of that image set her cheeks on fire. As he sat in his white T-shirt with the night breeze playing in his hair, Miranda knew that she had to get a hold of herself, and fast. “Did you always want to be a singer?”
“Actually, I tossed about the notion of being an architect. I was keen on building things
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