Chapter 20
MOLLY
Returning to Jeff’s house an hour later with a big overnight bag, I have nervous butterflies in my belly, but the way he lights up when I walk into the great room at the back of the house chases those nerves away.
“Come here,” he says warmly, hauling me over the back of the couch and right into the crook of his arm.
Silas laughs and climbs on top of us, joining the cuddle pile.
We watch another baseball game. Jeff gets a constant stream of text messages from his assistant coaches and the support staff, prepping for tomorrow, and I realize he must have silenced his phone earlier.
“So your days off aren’t really days off,” I murmur.
“I get more time off in the offseason,” he murmurs back.
“You’d have all the time off in the world if you retired to Wildflower Hollow,” Sinclaire says brightly, a reminder that our conversation isn’t exactly private.
“That’ll be up to Molly,” Jeff says casually.
My stomach flip-flops.
“And we aren’t going to rush that decision.” He kisses the side of my head. “Think of this as an extended engagement. A secret engagement, and we’ll explore our options at the end of the season.”
I think about that conversation for the rest of the day.
Through a genuinely lovely dinner and a long walk through the neighborhood once the temperature dips.
And then after Sinclaire and Trick say goodnight and retreat to their suite with Silas, Jeff brings it up.
“So that’s a day with my family,” he says as he backs me up against the kitchen counter and wraps himself around me.
I lean into his big, strong body, pressing my face into his neck, absorbing his warmth.
“I like them a lot,” I mumble.
“But my daughter is already trying to move you to Wyoming.”
“Isn’t that where you want to go?”
“Whirlwind, I’m going to tell you a secret,” he says, laughter tracing through his words.
“I’m a very wealthy man. Wherever you want to live, we can visit Wyoming as often as we want.
Where I want to go is where we’ll be most happy putting down roots.
We. Both of us. A decision we’ll make together. ”
“That’s a lot to think about.”
“You’ve got time.” He kisses me, his mouth sure and strong. His kiss says, we don’t need to think about that right now. We don’t need to think at all.
I’ve wanted to be alone with him all day, so I lean into the embrace and believe him.
He rewards me with a toe-curling, tummy-fluttering make-out session that makes my head spin.
“I want to take care of you,” he murmurs. “Tell me what you need.”
“Umm … Maybe a glass of water?” I sound like I’m drunk. I am, probably. Drunk on Jeff, drunk on passion.
He pours me a cold glass of water, pressing it into my hand. I swallow half of it in a hurry, then slow down.
“What else?” There’s a lot of humor in his voice.
That’s when I realize that the water wasn’t at all what he meant.
“I don’t know.” I take another sip. My pulse is pounding. “I do know what I want next, but I think you mean in a broader, bigger sense?”
“I mean it however you take it. Water is good. Whatever you want next is good. A white picket fence somewhere, sometime soon is very good.”
I nod slowly. “Can you find my phone?”
It’s in the living room, and he brings it to me as I finish my water. When he hands it over, I start recording a video. “Tell me that it’s time for bed.”
He gives the camera a heated, horny look I can’t put on social media. “Come upstairs with me, Molly.”
I press my lips together, trying not to smile, trying not to scream at how hot that was.
“Not what I meant,” I manage to get out.
“But I’m saving that for my own personal usage.
I was thinking something more like, ‘That’s a wrap on my day off.
Now I’ve gotta get a good night’s sleep because tomorrow I’ll be at the ballpark bright and early. ’”
A parade of emotions march across his face, then he gives a tight nod and parrots back exactly what I said, word for word, the corner of his mouth smirking up just the tiniest bit when he says good night’s sleep.
As soon as I stop recording and lower the phone, he’s on me again, kissing me hungrily.
“Upstairs,” he growls.
“Just need to post this to the team account,” I whisper.
“God damn it, how long will that take?”
“Ninety seconds.”
“I’m timing you.”
And distracting me. He kisses the back of my neck when I turn around to try and focus. He works his hand under my shirt, cupping my breast and teasing my nipple into a tight peak.
But I’m a pro and I want him to see that this is easy. I quickly stitch together the few clips I did manage to get of the day, then add a caption.
Our hard-working manager doesn’t love the camera, but he let us tag along as he ran errands on his day off. See you tomorrow for our first game against Baltimore!
I add the team hashtags and hit post just as Jeff tells me that time is up.
“Done,” I gasp, dropping my phone to the counter with a clatter.
“Bedtime,” he says, squeezing my ass possessively as he rocks me against his hard body.
I’m not going to argue with that.
But when we go upstairs, I’m hyperaware that Sinclaire and her family are just down the hall.
Jeff strips down to his boxer briefs and sprawls on the bed, leaning back against the headboard.
His silver-streaked hair is slightly mussed up, and his thick core is flexed in the most pleasing ways, muscles that speak to a lifetime of athletic discipline, now padded in a decade of enjoying the heck out of cheese and beer.
“Come here,” he says, patting the space beside him.
I hesitate at the edge of the bed. “Your daughter is down the hall.”
“In a completely different wing of the house.” He grins. “With the doors firmly closed and locked. They’re probably already asleep because Silas wears them out.”
“Still.”
“Molly.” His voice softens. “Get in bed with your husband.”
“I want to wear something special.” I say it in a rush.
I unpacked earlier, emptying my overnight bag into the walk-in closet that he only uses part of anyway.
“You don’t need to wear anything at all.” But he nods. “How about we just cuddle and talk for a bit first?”
He scoots to the edge of the bed and unbuttons my shorts. I step out of them and let him tug me onto the bed, slotting naturally into the vee of his legs, sitting with my back against his front, his back to the headboard again.
He chuckles against my hair. “You’re thinking too loud.” His hands settle on my shoulders, thumbs pressing into the tight muscles there. “Let me rub your back.”
His hands immediately go to work, kneading the tension from my shoulders with practiced ease.
“Where’d you learn to do this?” I mumble as he turns me into goo.
“I’ve had a lot of massages in my playing days. Picked up a few techniques.” His thumbs dig into a particularly tight knot, and I groan. “There it is. You’re carrying all your stress right here.”
“It’s been a day.”
“It has.” He works his way down my spine, his touch firm but gentle. “Tell me something I don’t know about you yet.”
“Like what?”
“Anything. Favorite color. Childhood pet. Secret talent.” His hands pause at the small of my back. “Every day, I want to learn something about my wife. Are you a morning person or a night owl?”
“Night owl,” I murmur. “And I already know you’re a morning person. Your entire family goes to bed at dusk.”
He laughs and resumes rubbing. “There are some advantages to early to bed. But when I retire, I look forward to you teaching me the value of staying up late and sleeping in.”
I smile. “Okay, what else … My favorite color is green. Bright, fresh, vibrant green. Like fresh-cut grass.”
He makes a triumphant sound. “Then we finally have something in common, because the baseball diamond first thing in the morning, when the grass is pristine and the early morning sun hits it just right … that’s my favorite color.”
“Mmm. But the early morning thing is … is that integral to that enjoyment, or …?”
He brushes my hair to one side and kisses the back of my neck. “Absolutely integral. But the very unique shade of pink that you turn when you blush is rapidly replacing that grass green color as my fave, and that I can enjoy late into the evening.”
Heat floods through me. “You are a very accommodating husband.” I think about what else to share. “I like the silver in your hair.”
“Yeah?” He sounds pleased.
“Now it’s your turn. Tell me something I don’t know about you.”
He works his thumbs down either side of my spine, then out, tracing along the bottom of my shoulder blades. “I get lonely in the offseason.”
I try to twist around, but he stops me.
“Just listen and let me keep rubbing you.” His hands slide down to the small of my back again, then scoop up, under my shirt this time.
Taking it off me. “For a long time, I thought that was my price to pay. Sinclaire was away at school, the team goes starburst in all different directions … There are people who work at the stadium year-round, of course, but … It’s expected that I take some time off, although I am available.
And I always felt relief when they needed me to come in or take a call.
But something changed last year. Maybe the year before, I can’t remember.
But for a while now, before you came to work for us, I’ve felt like it was almost time to be more selfish with my time.
To try to find someone special again. To want to be worthy of someone special.
I’ve never told anyone that. Not Sinclaire, not anyone I work with.
Definitely not Trick. Fuck, he’d never let me live that down after the way I stomped all over their feelings. ”
He undoes my bra, then curls himself around me, wrapping his arms around my bare torso as he kisses my shoulder. My neck. A spot behind my ear that makes me roll my head to give him better access.
But he just presses his face there and goes still.
“I want to share the next offseason with you. I want to give you all of my time now. I want to be so fucking annoying, you make me go back to work—”
“Never, unless you want to.” I take a deep breath. “Do you mind if I keep working?”
“What? No, of course not. It would be funny if I retire and just become Molly Rosehill’s husband, that guy who once coached the team.”
I’m laughing now, even though hearing him casually give me his last name is doing funny things to my heart. “I didn’t mean I’d keep working for the team.”
“Okay. Then wherever you go.”
“What kinds of jobs are there in Wildflower Hollow?”
“Damn it, now you’re going to make me do my best Wyoming Tourism Board impression, aren’t you?
” He chuckles along with me. “I bet the feed store would really like your marketing acumen. Or there’s a roadhouse on the edge of town that probably could use some help with their social media.
There might be a diner? To be honest, I’m not sure.
But whoever gets a chance will be lucky to have you. ”
“I like small towns,” I say.
“It’s generous to call it a town,” he cautions.
I’m not deterred. “I like the country.”
“I think it’s winter six months of the year.”
Now he’s just teasing, and I can tease back. “I like winter.”
“You’re probably really fucking cute in a parka.” He cups my breasts finally, making me arch into his touch. “And out of one.”
Which reminds me … I slither off the bed, grabbing my bra and my shirt. “Hold that thought. I really do have something to wear tonight.”
“I really don’t care what you wear,” he says, his voice carrying after me as I duck into the closet. It’s practically a dressing room, really.
I strip down, then change, and take a long, deep breath as I smooth my hands over my hair, then my hips.
“If you’re nervous, we don’t need to do anything,” he adds when I don’t reply. “As you say, it’s been a day.”