Summer Ever After: A Sweet Romantic Comedy

Chapter 12

I didn’t wearBlake’s jersey to our brunch date this morning. I figure I’ll put it on at the softball game for maximum mileage of the trope.

It will be my last-ditch effort to try to turn this date around.

The conversation during our meal was a little one-sided, not for a lack of effort on my part. I asked Blake a million questions about himself, but he never reciprocated any interest in me. I even started inserting facts about myself into the conversation, hoping it would spur him to inquire more.

I have webbed toes.

I play three instruments.

I’ve met Taylor Swift.

Nothing I said piqued Blake’s interest. He just talked over me with more useless information about himself.

I must’ve missed all the signs at work that he’s self-absorbed.

We walk together from the city square to the softball field. It’s almost time for my ‘You’re only allowed to wear my jersey number’ moment. I don’t have high hopes that it will work out. To be honest, I don’t even want it to work with him, but I’m a little bored, so maybe I’ll see the trope through just for my entertainment purposes.

Blake is in the middle of another riveting gaming story. “I was playing Fortnite with my friend, and we were crankin’ nineties…”

I nod, pretending to care when really my mind drifts to Walker and the way he interacted with his family at dinner last night. I’ve been around the Collins family long enough to know that Walker doesn’t say much with them. But now that I’m older, I recognize things that I didn’t pick up on when we were younger. Like how tense he seemed. How his jaw clenched whenever anyone asked him a direct question. Or the way he glanced at the clock all night, as if he willed time to move faster. As soon as dinner was over, he had Heath drive him home.

I don’t know. The whole thing was strange.

My mind can’t reconcile that the Walker who’s so charming with me is the same timid guy I saw last night. It just doesn’t add up. I know because I spent all night long and this morning trying to figure it out.

Honestly, I need to get him out of my head and focus on the men who actually live in Sunset Harbor.

Like Blake.

I glance at him.

“Dude, I’m going yard in today’s softball game.”

“I bet,” I say with a fake smile. That’s all the enthusiasm I can muster.

“So you’ll just cheer us on from the bleachers?”

“Yep, I’ll be your personal cheerleader. I’m just going to use the restroom first.” And change into your jersey.

“Okay, I’ll wave to you from the field.”

That could be cute. Maybe I shouldn’t call it quits on this date just yet. “Can’t wait.”

I head to the bathroom. Since it’s empty, I don’t even bother going into a stall to change my shirt. The number thirteen jersey is a little big, so I tie the front into a knot at my belly button.

“There.” I flip my beach waves off my shoulders as I look at myself in the mirror. “Time to make some romance magic.”

When I come out of the bathroom, Blake is standing outside the dugout, talking to Holland. I didn’t know she was on this same softball team—The Swingers, as they call themselves. Kind of a clever name. But it’s not Holland I’m really focused on. It’s the fact that Blake isn’t wearing the number thirteen jersey like I thought. He’s wearing ninety-nine. My entire love life goes up in flames right before my eyes.

“Hey.” I butt into their conversation with a smile. I know it’s rude to interrupt, but I have a crisis on my hands. I guess it’s more like a semi-crisis. I wasn’t sure I wanted this trope to work anyway.

“Hi, Jane.” Holland glances at my jersey. “Are you the sub today?”

Panic crosses over Blake’s face. “Sorry, Jane. I should’ve told you, but the team’s full. We already found a sub.”

“No, I know. I just thought it would be a nice gesture to wear your jersey number. You know, for support.”

“Aww, that’s cute.” Holland’s smile grows in understanding. She was there in the beginning when the Summer of Jane Hayes was born. She’s partly to blame for this craziness.

My brows drop in confusion as I stare at the ninety-nine on Blake’s shirt. “You told me the other day that you were number thirteen.”

“I loaned my jersey to the sub and borrowed an extra from work.”

My lips morph into a frown. “So, whose number am I wearing?”

“That would be mine.”

There could be a thousand people chattering around me, and I’d still be able to pick out Walker’s amused voice.

I slowly turn around and meet his smug smile. My peripheral picks up the number thirteen across his chest matching mine.

Well, that backfired.

“How nice of you to wear my number, Jane.” Oh, that smugness. I would slap it off his face, except it’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.

“Play ball!” the umpire shouts from home plate.

“Okay, we’re up.” Blake tugs Holland toward the dugout.

Walker takes a step toward me, leaning in. “Wearing someone’s jersey. That’s intimate. Something a girlfriend would do.” His warm words dust the edge of my ear, sending chills rippling down my arms. His head kicks back just enough for me to see his playful blue eyes and teasing smile. “I didn’t know we were at that level yet.”

I ignore everything he just said, still trying to put all the pieces together. “What are you even doing here?”

“It’s called being a good neighbor and friend. It’s community, Jane.” His eyes dance. “I thought you liked this sort of thing.”

I purse my lips, eyeing him and his stupid sapphire eyes.

“Walker, you’re batting third!” Blake yells.

His stare drifts up and down my shirt, and the corner of his mouth lifts. Then he leans forward again, so far that his lips brush against strands of my hair, causing them to tickle my ear, making my whole body shiver. “You look good wearing my jersey. Real good.”

A firecracker of feeling explodes inside my body, sparks flying every which way.

Then he’s gone, headed to the dugout.

My chest collapses as I release a choppy breath. I blink a few times, trying to recover. But how do you recover after something like that? You have to wait until the fireworks stop.

I’m still waiting.

I don’t think this is how the trope is supposed to go, but it worked.

It worked so hard.

My feet carry me to the stands like a drive home when you’re not actually paying attention to driving—highway hypnosis. I sit, the hot bleachers burning the back of my legs. And before I know it, Walker is up to bat.

I swear, if he hits a home run, I’m out. A girl can only take so much.

The first pitch is in the dirt.

The second pitch is high.

And the third pitch…well, Walker swings and connects, sending the ball over the centerfield fence.

Unbelievable.

He flips his bat, turning to the stands—to me, since I’m the only fan. A deliciously cocky smile fills his entire face. He grabs his jersey as he starts to round first base, pulling it out from his chest like he’s highlighting our matching numbers.

Walker Collins is a walking romance trope.

Nothing has ever been so annoying and so satisfying at the same time.