Chapter 8 Dani
Dani
Iwas more baked than a potato—and not in the fun, legal in twenty-four states kind of way.
It was one of those criminally hot afternoons that only came around every so often in Oregon, even in the springtime.
To think, just two days ago, I had been wrapped in a fleece blanket, huddling next to my space heater like a Victorian orphan.
Yet here I was, clad only in sunglasses and my favorite black-and-white bikini like Wednesday Addams, sipping something vaguely citrusy and nonalcoholic.
Only in Oregon could you go from seasonal depression to sunscreen in under forty-eight hours.
“This is the life.” Nessa beamed from the neighboring chair.
“You’re telling me.”
“I wonder what it would take to convince Pink to put in a pool at his place.”
My lips curved up in a small grin. “Oh, probably just whatever it is you do that makes him groan your name like he’s praying to a goddess every other night.”
Clarke nearly spit out her drink. All Nessa could do was laugh.
“Do you really want to know—”
“No!” Clarke and I shouted at the same time.
Pink was the closest thing to a sibling I had ever known, and sure, I was thrilled that he and Nessa had found each other, but that didn’t mean I wanted to hear about all the nasty things they did to each other.
The three of us had curled up on the daybeds beneath the covered pergola while the guys got in the pool, alternating between conversation and whatever books we were reading on our Kindles.
Nessa had talked Clarke and me into joining the monthly book club she hosted at her store, but between my surging hormones and the fact that the main character was a tattooed, single father, I had had to set the book aside.
I could only take so much torture.
A few of the guys were engaged in some sort of hyper-competitive water volleyball match. The rest were scattered amongst the luxurious outdoor kitchen, taking turns manning the grill and margarita station like dads at a neighborhood block party.
And then there was Matty, our esteemed host.
The entire team had thought he was nuts when he’d first purchased the 1920s farmhouse just outside of town, and rightfully so.
The place had looked like something out of a true crime documentary—peeling wallpaper around every corner, creaky floors that screamed “unresolved murder,” and more than a few questionable stains.
Even the Zillow listing had come with a disclaimer that said, “For legal reasons, we advise against this.”
Six months and a hundred grand later, and the place was nice enough to make any HGTV show host cry.
Warm wood accents, black window trim, and rustic-modern everything.
If the baseball thing didn’t work out, Matty could probably make a pretty penny flipping houses for Pacific Northwest hipsters—he had done most of the renovations himself.
“Yo, Matty,” Bennett called out from the patio. “Your dog ran off with my wiener.”
“Mo,” Matty drawled from the pool. “Don’t you dare.”
The dog froze in a stance I could only describe as cartoon villainish, long ears dragging on the tile, tail straight out like a periscope. Sure enough, her tiny teeth were wrapped around a hot dog, bun and all.
And then, she lunged.
Half the team erupted into shouts and laughter as Mo barreled across the lawn, launching herself—and Bennett’s hot dog—into the pool.
Matty groaned. “That dog is gonna be the death of me.”
“Only because you spoil her rotten,” I shouted across the lawn.
“She’s not rotten,” Matty said, dead serious, scooping Mo up into his arms like she was a precious jewel. “She’s just a Daddy’s girl.”
I shook my head, smiling as the guys launched into a debate about whether or not hot dogs should be counted as a type of sandwich. Sigh. We had been down this road before. Several times, in fact—the last of which had turned semi-violent when half the team had staged a gas station sandwich fight.
That had been a fun one to explain to Brooks.
Because Clarke and I traveled with the team, we were used to their amusing antics—the half-serious debates, the constant chirping, the weird inside jokes that came from spending half of the year crammed together in hotel rooms and buses.
But today felt different. It felt like family.
The messy, too-loud kind who argued over stupid shit at Thanksgiving and then passed you a slice of pecan pie like nothing had happened. Or so I had been told by friends and Hallmark movies.
Family traditions were as foreign to me as the idea of living on the moon.
Even before my mom had passed away, we had never had that kind of closeness that most daughters craved from their mothers.
Mostly because she had always been more taken with the idea of parenthood rather than the messy, exhausting reality of actually being a parent.
Thankfully, she had missed the peak of family vlogging by about two decades, because there wasn’t a doubt in my mind that she would have been a “mommy vlogger,” one of the filtered, performative ones who doled out parenting advice between brand deals.
She had wanted a curated version of parenthood, and sadly, I had never fit the aesthetic.
To be fair, I would have made terrible content.
I was too stubborn, too independent, too resistant to be the kind of daughter she’d wanted to shape. I listened to podcasts and watched obscure documentaries. I didn’t dress for style or trends, but rather for armor. Black was safer than pink; combat boots were better than ballet flats.
She had never understood my bisexuality either. She didn’t even try to. She wasn’t cruel about it, but she had looked at me differently after I’d come out. Like I was something off script, a detour she hadn’t planned for.
Deep down, I thought she always hoped I’d grow out of it—whatever “it” was in her mind. That maybe one day I would wake up and want the kind of life she had always wanted for herself: a comfortable home, a husband, and a couple of kids who thought just like their mother.
But I was doing okay. Better than okay most days, even if I still carried that invisible ache of having never been quite enough for the one person who was supposed to love me unconditionally.
And now, with a baby of my own on the way, that ache twisted into something sharper.
I didn’t just want to be different from my mother—I had to be.
I wanted my kid to know, without question, that they were loved exactly as they were, not in spite of it.
A harsh breath whooshed out of me. Damn. Who would have guessed that a friendly argument about hot dogs would lead to such heavy thoughts and repressed memories? Now, I was anxious and hungry.
“I’m going to grab a snack,” I blurted, peeling myself off the lounger and grabbing my oversized tote. “Anybody need anything?
Clarke and Nessa waved me off, and I made my way toward the food table, on the hunt for something salty that wouldn’t immediately send my stomach into a tailspin.
That was when Pink spotted me.
“There are pickles in the fridge and ice cream in the freezer,” he said, popping a dip-drenched carrot into his mouth. “You know, if that’s what you’re still craving these days.”
I smiled. “Pickles are so first trimester. I’m onto avocados now.”
“That seems . . . relatively normal.”
“With barbecue chips and chili oil.”
He smirked. “Still, anything is better than that pickle-Cheetos-ice cream slop.”
“Says the man wearing a flamingo shirt.”
He held out his arms and spun slowly, showing off every inch of his white, flamingo-covered shirt, unbuttoned enough to expose his abs and chest hair. The man had zero shame.
“You feeling okay?” he asked, lowering his voice.
“You know, growing a person. Trying to keep down my lunch. Living the dream.” I nodded toward the margarita in his hand. “I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t dying for a sip of that margarita.”
His brow furrowed just slightly, the way it always did when he was clocking something deeper beneath the surface. People could think what they wanted about Jared Pink, but the man had a lot more going for him than boyish good looks and fuck boy charm.
“Have you told him—”
“No.”
“But you’re going to—”
“Leave it be, Sir Pink-a-lot.”
Thankfully, he didn’t push. He knew me better than that.
Instead, he just nodded and leaned casually against the table, letting the silence stretch comfortably between us.
Deciding I should throw him a bone, I fished around in my bag and pulled out the grainy black-and-white photo the ultrasound tech had sent home with me after yesterday’s visit.
“Here.” I held it out to him discreetly, like we were doing some kind of shady drug deal.
“Is this—”
“Your future niece or nephew.” I nodded. “But don’t go waving it around.”
He studied the photo with a kind of reverence, holding it delicately between his fingers like it might crumble if he breathed too hard.
“Well, damn,” he whispered, blinking down at it. “Look at that little bean. You think it’s too early to say they’ve got my jawline?”
I couldn’t help the laugh that escaped me. “You wish.”
“Uncle Pink,” he murmured. “I like the sound of that.”
Somewhere behind us, Mo let out a low, mournful howl—probably because someone had finally blocked her from nabbing another hot dog.
“That dog is a menace.”
Pink grinned. “We should get one.”
“Abso-fucking-lutely not.” I twisted my lips in thought. “Although, you might be able to talk Nessa into it if you get her a pool.”
His eyes lit up. He looked at the photo for another second, then handed it back to me. Or at least, he tried to.
Just as the sonogram slipped between our fingers, a flash of brown and black fur bolted between us.
Fucking Mo.
With ninja-like speed, the floppy-eared chaos demon snatched the photo clean out of Pink’s hand and took off at a dead sprint.
“No!” I shrieked.
“Fucking hell, she stole your baby.”
We both took off after her—me clutching the front of my bikini top to avoid a nip slip and Pink sprinting at full speed, his half-finished margarita sloshing over the edge of his cup.
Mo bolted across the lawn like a four-legged bandit with a new chew toy, dodging discarded pool noodles, furniture, and anybody in her path.
“Don’t chase her,” Matty shouted. From the corner of my eye, I saw him pull himself up and over the pool’s edge. “She thinks you’re playing.”
Mo juked left, nearly colliding with Nessa, then doubled back, clearly thinking this was the greatest game ever invented. The sonogram flapped in her mouth like a victory flag.
There was no way I was going to let her win this one.
“Come back, you little gremlin,” I yelled, gaining on her. Even in a bikini, I could run circles around these guys. And their dogs, apparently.
Somewhere behind us, Clarke was doubled over, laughing. Matty hollered after Mo, offering to trade her for another hot dog. Not spoiled, my ass.
“I swear”—I panted, sprinting across the grass—“if she eats it, I’m never talking to Matty again.”
Pink huffed. “And give up access to his pool? Yeah, right.”
The race continued. Somewhere behind me, I heard the sliding glass door open, and a few new voices filtered out across the yard, but I couldn’t be bothered to investigate. Not while this furry little fucker still had my baby’s first photo between her teeth.
The two of us barreled across the grass like a couple of mall cops chasing our perp. And just when I finally had her in my sight, my foot snagged on the edge of a deflated pool floatie.
One second, I was going down, and the next, a pair of strong hands were hauling me back against a well-toned chest.
My breath caught in my throat before I even looked up. I knew that grip, that warm and woodsy smell.
Brooks.
Oh, fuck.
He caught me with one strong arm, the other landing instinctively on my hip as he eased me back onto my feet. His hands were rough and warm, and despite the late afternoon heat radiating off the concrete, his touch sent a full-body shiver straight through me.
I barely had time to recover before I registered just how close we were—or how fucking hot he looked.
It wasn’t often that I saw him out of athletic wear, but Brooks Bailey-Ward in a pair of jeans was almost too much to handle.
The way they clung to his thighs, cupped his crotch.
I felt my face get hot, and I knew my blush would give me away any second.
And then there was the backwards hat. My kryptonite. The man was a walking, talking orgasm.
When his attention raked over my body, I was suddenly very aware of just how naked I was. And just like that, the heat on my skin had nothing to do with the sun.
“What are you doing here?” I managed, voice low and shaky.
“Heller invited me for a beer,” he said, nodding toward the long-haired man standing by the pool.
Brock Heller was a sports journalist turned podcaster turned novelist who had recently stepped back from his journalistic career to focus on writing his next queer romance novel. He was also dating the Roasters’ second baseman, Johnathan Tucker.
Brooks looked around the yard, confused. “I didn’t realize the whole team would be here.”
I stepped back, trying to reclaim my heartbeat. “Yeah, it’s an unofficial movie night slash housewarming party.”
He blinked, still a little out of sorts, and that was when the yelling started again.
“What the hell?”
Matty’s voice rang out from the middle of the lawn. All eyes turned toward him just as he held something up above his head, waving it through the air.
Double fuck.
Mo was now sprawled beside him on the grass, tongue lolling, completely unrepentant.
Matty squinted at the image. “Alrighty, which one of you is knocked up?”
Silence fell over the yard like someone had hit the mute button. Heads spun. Drinks paused mid-sip. Even the music from the outdoor speakers seemed to fade.
And then, slowly, every pair of eyes turned toward me.
Clarke murmured something that sounded like, “Well, crap on a cracker.”
Nessa covered her eyes.
And Brooks . . . his eyes ping-ponged back and forth between me and the photo Matty was waving. His hands had dropped from my waist, but I could still feel the heat of them like they’d been branded there.
“Dani?” he asked quietly.
I swallowed, heart hammering.
“Um, surprise,” I said, just above a whisper.
Fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck, fuck.