Chapter 5 Bella
Bella
Ten Weeks to Opening Day
“Harder.” Matty grunted. “Put your back into it, old man.”
Rather than dignify him with a response, Soren braced his feet and helped maneuver Bennett’s massive bed frame through the front door, the wood scraping over the entryway rug as rain misted behind them.
“That’s what she said,” June muttered into her hot chocolate.
Clarke’s head snapped up so fast, her blonde ponytail nearly slapped her in the face. “Excuse you. As the she in this scenario, that is not what she would say.”
“And what would she say?” Nessa teased, hugging her leopard-print throw blanket tighter around herself.
“No comment.” Clarke’s eyes lit up from behind her mug. “But please, let the record show that my man can throw me over his shoulder, push me up against a wall, and I will thank him every damn time. Loudly.”
I took a long, steady sip of my slutty hot chocolate as the girls dissolved into laughter.
Moving day should’ve come with a warning label.
CAUTION: Prolonged exposure to muscled men lifting furniture may result in overheating. Hydrate responsibly.
The guys had shown up before nine, all grim determination and gratuitous biceps, ready to haul Bennett’s life out of his truck and into the townhouse next door.
Well, except for Diaz. Apparently, Bennett’s former roommate wasn’t a morning person. It had taken three cups of coffee and two cinnamon rolls to de-zombify him.
Meanwhile, the girls and I had committed ourselves to the far more demanding task of “supervising,” which in actuality involved very little supervision and far too much sarcastic commentary.
Clarke had arrived first, sweeping in like a pastel hurricane with a pastry box from Jo’s bakery, Would Smell as Sweet, balanced on one arm and a steaming pot of cocoa in the other.
Nessa and I had supplied the blankets, and June, in typical June fashion, had brought along a bottle of peppermint schnapps big enough to stun a small elk.
We had accidentally created the sluttiest, coziest spectator sport in the Pacific Northwest, and honestly, I couldn’t think of a better way to spend a Sunday morning.
“Damn,” June exclaimed. “This is better than porn.”
“You’re not wrong,” Nessa murmured, adjusting her pom-pom hat. “It’s giving . . . men written by women.” She nudged my foot with hers. “By the way, that book you ordered came in yesterday.”
“Which book?” Clarke asked excitedly, eyes sparkling like a kid on Christmas morning.
“The February pick for Smutty Buddies,” Nessa said, wiggling her eyebrows. “The grumpy-sunshine story about an ornery lumberjack and the werewolf next door. Bella’s finally letting me indoctrinate her into the wonderful world of romance.”
Clarke gasped loud enough to make Soren look over with alarm mid–mattress lift.
“Does that mean you’re going to join the book club, too?” she squealed. Xan wasn’t here today, but I could practically hear their delighted gasp through the ether.
I held up my palms. “It’s just one book.”
“One book that is going to change your life,” June corrected solemnly. “Romance novels are basically training manuals for that.”
She nodded her head toward Matty just as he lifted a chest of drawers down from the truck bed, forearms flexing with every move. His shirt stretched across his back, then rose the tiniest bit when he straightened, offering a glimpse of freckles and copper curls beneath the hem.
“Bless this day,” June said before biting into an almond croissant. “Let’s make bingo cards for the next move. You know, stuff like aggressive high five and Diaz trips over his own feet.”
As if conjured by the universe, Diaz stumbled over a crack in the sidewalk at that very moment.
June whooped. “Bingo!”
I took another sip of hot chocolate, letting the warmth hit me from the inside out.
“I feel like we should be paying admission,” I muttered.
Clarke giggled. “Or at least charging for the show.”
Now, there was an idea. Forget the honey business; I should have gone into ticket scalping.
Something told me Rose City fans would pay a pretty penny to watch their starting infield lineup haul furniture across my brother’s driveway. Especially since the guys had long since discarded their jackets, which meant I had a front-row seat to Bennett King in a sweat-drenched, fitted thermal.
June was right.
This was better than any porn I’d ever seen.
The slow bend of his knees as he lifted a box, the outline of his chest rising and falling with controlled breaths, the way his massive hands gripped the edge of a piece of furniture like he could snap it—or me—in half . . .
And that was before he lifted his shirt to wipe the sweat dripping from his brow.
“Sweet mother of thighs,” June whispered reverently.
I couldn’t have said it better myself.
I pressed my thighs together instinctively, seeking relief.
Bennett’s thermal rose higher, revealing a strip of golden skin, and then the sculpted lines of his abdomen. Defined, taut. The kind of abs that were crafted from years of training and discipline.
Somewhere beside me, Clarke murmured, “Lord have mercy.”
I barely heard her because Bennett didn’t just wipe his face. Oh no, he dragged the fabric slowly, like a man who had no idea what he was doing, like he wasn’t casually rearranging the chemical makeup of my brain the way I wanted him to rearrange my insides.
His hips angled slightly to the side, and every line of muscle tightened and shifted with the movement, drawing my eyes lower, following a faint trail of hair leading south like a treasure map leading to his golden coc—
I choked on my hot chocolate.
Nessa casually patted my back. “Easy there, killer.”
“I’m fine.” I wheezed, eyes watering.
Except, I was not fine. I was actively combusting. And the worst part was he wasn’t even trying.
I’d grown up around baseball players—locker-room peacocks who flexed for attention, winked at cameras, and treated every stretch like a performance review for their egos. Jared’s old teammates used to lift their shirts just to check if anyone was watching.
But Bennett King hadn’t been built from the same blueprint.
He didn’t flex on purpose or toss around fake charm. He was quiet, focused, a walking wet dream who short-circuited my brain anytime he glanced in my direction.
Which only made the fantasies worse.
It was one thing to lust after a cocky, pretty boy. It was another thing entirely to want someone who made my stomach flip simply by existing.
Bennett looked like the kind of man who could lift me, love me, and snap me in half—in the best way possible—and I had spent hours imagining all three.
And now he lived next door.
Lord, help me.
By the time they carried the last box inside, my hot chocolate was cold, my blanket had ridden up around my knees, and I had cycled through no fewer than twelve distinct fantasies.
When the guys finally tumbled back outside, shaking out their arms and stretching like victorious gladiators, my brother led the pack, stumbling onto the cement and making a beeline straight for Nessa.
“Did you enjoy the show, angel?”
He planted himself on the ground and rested his head on her lap.
“It’s been raining, babe,” she said, running her fingers through his hair. “You’re going to get wet.”
“That makes two of us,” he teased around a wink.
I recoiled so fast I nearly whiplashed myself.
“Gross.” I yelped, burying my face in the blanket draped around my shoulders. “Can we please limit the horny banter when your sister is around?”
The rest of them snickered.
Trying to scrub my brain of whatever emotional damage my brother had inflicted, I hopped up and grabbed the small cooler we had stashed beside the porch.
“Beer and water,” I announced, flipping the lid open. “For your labor. Oh, and pizza is on the way.”
One by one, the guys grabbed their drinks. Soren thanked me with a tight nod. Diaz kissed my cheek. Pink, still sprawled across Nessa’s lap, stretched one arm back blindly until I shoved a bottle into it.
And then Bennett stepped forward.
His hair was damp from the rain and sweat, curling slightly at the ends.
The fitted thermal he’d been torturing me with clung to him in ways that should be illegal.
He didn’t posture, didn’t preen—just held out his hand with that quiet, steady focus that did terrible things to my internal temperature.
“Beer?”
He nodded. “Please.”
I held it out to him, and his hand brushed mine when he took it. Just for a split-second graze, but the jolt was instant.
“Thanks,” he murmured, voice low enough to vibrate.
“You’re—” I swallowed. “You’re welcome.”
I distracted myself by grabbing the last maple bar from the box of pastries, swallowing a third of it down in one bite.
“You got another beer for me?” Matty asked, clapping a hand on Bennett’s broad shoulder and smiling wide.
It was easy to see why the Roasters’ shortstop had been named the American League West’s Sexiest Player.
Between his Southern twang and a smile that had singlehandedly fueled half the erotic fanfiction on the internet, there wasn’t a woman alive—or man, for that matter—who could resist Matty’s charm.
The strawberry-blond curls and freckles didn’t hurt either.
“Here you go,” I said, matching that smile, a gesture I instantly regretted when he answered, “Thanks, Baby Belle.”
I groaned. “Really? You’re sticking with that stupid nickname?”
Diaz perked up like a puppy with a new toy. “Aw, come on, Baby Belle. It’s cute and only slightly . . . cheesy.”
I leveled him with a flat stare. “Great. Just what every woman dreams of—being compared to a snack-sized dairy product.”
Nessa nodded. “To be fair, you are small and curvy.”
“And you do like cheese,” Clarke quickly added.
“Wow,” I deadpanned. “Thank you for that devastatingly poetic assessment of my entire being.”
Jared, still sprawled across Nessa’s lap, chimed in without lifting his head. “You’ll always be Baby Belle to me, kid.”
I hurled the other half of my donut at him, nailing him between the eyes.