Chapter 11
JEFF
She’s twenty-three. She wants an annulment. I cannot fall in love with this girl.
Too fucking late.
But it’s for the best that she wants to hear about my disaster of a first marriage. It’ll make it easier to end this bittersweet flash-in-a-pan second marriage.
I park at the strip mall where the best tacos in the city are secretly made, and hustle around to the passenger side of the car.
I offer her my hand to help her out. When she takes it, her fingers slide against mine, warm and soft, and a possessive spark of something very inconvenient makes me tighten my grip on her.
I don’t want to let go.
For a moment, she looks up at me with such an open, vulnerable gaze that I think she might push up on her toes and kiss me right here in this parking lot.
I can see real desire in the depths of her eyes, feel it in the shudder that rolls through her, all the way to her fingers gripping tightly against mine.
Both of us clinging to each other.
I lean in, even as my brain is yelling at me not to do it, not to kiss her, it will only make things worse—
And then she ducks her head at the last minute.
I clear my throat and release her hand.
Half my age and twice as smart. My admiration for Molly only grows.
“Let’s get you some tacos,” I mutter.
Inside, she takes her time looking at the menu board and talking up the kid behind the counter. He, of course, immediately falls in love with her and promises to make the best tacos ever.
She gives him a beaming smile that probably gives him a hard-on.
It fucking does for me, and I’m not even the recipient.
Since it’s too hard to decide, we get a big variety platter, and the kid promises that anything we don’t eat can get wrapped up and reheated later.
“These make a great midnight snack,” he promises.
I’m punched in the gut with a visceral image of Molly naked, except for maybe being wrapped in my sheet, or one of my dress shirts, licking salsa off her fingertips and laughing at me.
A snack after a good, long, hard workout in the sheets.
Fucking hell, I want her.
I want her in my bed, I want her on my tongue, I want her in my life.
I want her to be my wife for real, and that’s not fucking happening.
But for tonight …
Tonight, she is my wife. Tonight, this kid behind the counter is shooting me an envious look like he’s impressed I could get a woman like this, and damn it, he’s right.
I nod in acknowledgment. Yeah, bud. I’m a lucky man. You have no idea how lucky, and how fleeting.
“This looks good,” Molly murmurs as we settle at a table at the back, the platter of food between us.
I’m staring at her. “So fucking good.”
She lifts her head, another smile playing at the corners of her mouth as she reaches for her margarita to take a sip.
My wife.
She is, after all. At least until I can convince her to sign those divorce papers. Or until she can convince me that an annulment would be better.
And until either of those things happen, I’m her husband.
“Eat,” I say hoarsely. “I promised to feed you.”
“You also promised me a story about your first divorce,” she points out.
“Ah. Yeah. That.” I make a face. But that’s a good karmic punishment for the thoughts I was just having.
“I got married way too young and for not the right reasons, in hindsight. We didn’t love each other the way two people need to in order to survive the ups and downs of pro sports.
When she said she wanted out, it felt like a relief.
Like I didn’t need to be splitting myself in two anymore.
She happily moved on to another marriage. And I …”
“You married baseball?”
I roll my shoulders. “Yeah.”
“It’s well-known fan lore.”
“Ah.” I don’t know why, but Molly knowing that itches under my skin.
“You don’t like that?”
“This is going to sound funny for someone who has spent his entire career in the limelight, but I’m not a big fan of being perceived.”
She laughs. “That is funny, yes.”
“But as you say, baseball is entertainment. We must give the people what they want.”
“You never thought about just coaching Little League instead?” Her eyes sparkle as she hands me a taco. “Eat this. It’s so good.”
It’s even better because she’s touched it. I lick my fingers when I finish. “I think most people coach Little League because their kids are playing.”
“Move to Wyoming. Coach Silas’s team in a few years.”
“His dad will do that.”
“You could do it together.”
I frown. “So eager to get a different coach at the Outlaws, are you?”
She’s undeterred. “I won’t be there in a few years, anyway.”
“No?”
She shakes her head. “I like this job, don’t get me wrong—please don’t get me wrong. But Florida isn’t for me, not forever. It’s weird to wear shorts all year round. And I want to …”
When her cheeks turn pink and she trails off, I lean in. Instead of grilling her, I examine the platter and pick my favorite taco. “Try this one.”
She takes it, our fingers brushing, and then she carefully eats it in five neat, slow bites. I count each one, watching her fingers and her lips, and then her lips around her fingers as she chases the slightly messy drips at the end.
My cock thickens and pulses, straining the limits of my jeans.
God damn it, what I would give to feel those lips anywhere on my body.
“You want what?” I prompt.
She shakes her head, her mouth still working.
“I told you about my divorce. Come on. Share a secret life dream with me, Molly. I won’t tell anyone, I promise.”
The pink deepens, but her eyes lift, and she holds my gaze.
“I want a family. I want kids and a white picket fence. When I was in school and I started to really explore what it would mean to work in theater and the performing arts, versus going into media and marketing … this path just seemed to make more sense for working for a few years, then meeting the right guy, getting …”
“Married,” I prompt again. Because fucking hell. I get it now.
She doesn’t want a divorce from a famous baseball coach to mar this perfect future she has. She doesn’t want to meet the right guy in a few years and have to explain that yeah, she was married for a hot second, and now she gets alimony from someone old enough to be her dad.
She makes a face and grabs another taco. “Here.”
I take it from her.
“Nothing wrong with wanting to wait for the right person,” I say gruffly.
“Too late for that.” Her lower lip comes out, and it’s almost a pout.
“So a divorce isn’t a part of that life plan.”
“Not even a little bit.”
“Okay. Annulment it is.” I try not to frown, to cover up my reaction with eating the taco, but I don’t think I succeed.
She watches me, her own brow tightening, and when I offer her another taco from the tray, she waves it off. “You don’t like the idea of the annulment, though.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“It does to me.” She picks up a piece of tomato that got free, and pops it into her mouth, then makes a very satisfied sound that makes my brain flatline.
“Good?” I ask hoarsely.
“So good. I don’t know how even their chopped veggies are better than average?” She finds another piece of tomato on the platter and reaches across the table, offering it directly to my mouth.
I part my lips and let her feed it to me.
Her pupils dilate as her fingers brush my lips, then my tongue.
Neither of us breathe as we both freeze, a complicated, confusing tableau.
Then she jerks her hand away, and I close my mouth. The diced tomato is perfectly seasoned, just a touch salty and spritzed with lime juice.
It is, just like Molly’s fingertips, absolutely delicious.