Chapter 8
Bennett
Nine Weeks to Opening Day
Iwas still figuring out where everything lived.
That was the thing no one warned you about when you moved in somewhere new. Not the boxes or the logistics or the inevitable missing mug, but the way your brain kept reaching for things that weren’t where they used to be. So much for muscle memory.
I savored the quiet of my new bedroom, shoving the last stack of T-shirts into a drawer.
It’d been about a week since I’d moved into Pink and Nessa’s spare room, and overall, it was going surprisingly well.
Loud, obviously, but that was to be expected.
Pink had an opinion about every fucking thing under the sun.
Just yesterday, we had gotten into it about whether or not chili was a type of soup.
Obviously not, it’s a fucking stew.
Nessa was the real bonus. She had a way of turning the house into a home, with fresh coffee brewing in the mornings and playlists that kept the vibe light, all of which had made the transition from Diaz’s place a lot easier to stomach.
Of course, there were . . . adjustments.
Like the other night. I had stumbled downstairs half-asleep and desperate for a midnight snack.
What I hadn’t expected to find was Nessa splayed out on the counter while Pink snacked on her pussy.
I’d frozen just long enough to register the scene in unfortunate detail before racing back up the stairs like the house was on fire.
That was one way to kick my late-night snack habits.
The truth was, this setup with Pink and Nessa was perfect, at least until I bought my own place. Hopefully something with lots of room, inside and out—and maybe a killer home gym.
And a pool. I had always wanted a pool.
The rest of the team had balked when Matty had first purchased his farmhouse of horrors—that was what we had called it at least. Four months, seventy-five grand, and a few gallons of paint later and the guy had basically rebuilt half his place himself, pool included.
Hopefully, if everything went according to plan, I could close on a place by the end of the All-Star break. Something big enough for family visits, late-night swims after games, and plenty of room to breathe without having to worry about walking in on surprise kitchen sex.
Unless I was the one having the kitchen sex.
I shook my head, smirking at my own reflection in the window. That was when I saw her. Out in the shared yard between our houses, tending to her bees.
Damned if my room didn’t have the perfect view of her beehives. Not that I had spent that much time thinking about that.
She was bent over one of the hives, her dark hair catching the faint light as it spilled from the back of her bee veil.
Her body moved with an effortless grace—my pole-dancing goddess—with curves that begged to be appreciated.
Full hips swayed slightly as she shifted weight, the kind of round ass that would bounce perfectly against my thighs, soft and plush and made for my hands to spread wide.
She was all dangerous softness, the kind of body that could ruin a man, and damn if I wouldn’t let her.
Before I could talk myself out of it, I hurried out of my room and down the stairs. The back door creaked as I stepped out, the grass damp under my sneakers from last night’s rain.
I cleared my throat as I approached, stopping a safe distance away. “Hey.”
She lifted her head but kept the veil on. “Hey. How goes the unpacking?”
“I just finished.” I nodded toward the hives. “That’s one hell of an operation you’ve got going on there.”
She laughed, a light sound that carried over the hum of the insects. “Thanks. It took a year, but I think we’ve finally found our routine.”
“We?”
“Yeah, me and the ladies. You should stay back. They can be super protective if you’re not properly suited up.”
“Smart gals,” I said, shoving my hands in my pockets. “Do you mind if I ask how you ever got into this?”
She hesitated, fingers worrying the edge of her glove. “You can’t laugh.”
“At bees? That feels risky.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Bennett.”
That’s right, Arabella. Say my name.
I held my hands out in front of me. “No laughing, I promise.”
She studied me for a long second, like she was deciding whether I was trustworthy enough for whatever this was. Finally, she nodded.
“I joined the apiary club at my university,” she said, voice softer now, almost cautious. “Not because I was obsessed with bees from the start. I mean, I liked the idea of them—pollinators, honey, the whole ecosystem thing—but really, I joined because I was trying to make friends.”
She glanced at me quickly, then back at the hive, like she was bracing for judgment. She wouldn’t get any from me.
“I actually tried a bunch of clubs, pottery, gaming, hiking, but nothing ever clicked until I found the apiary club. The people there were different. Nobody cared if I kept to myself or said the wrong thing. I just had to show up and care about the bees. And eventually, people started talking to me. Real conversations. I made actual friends.”
She looked up then, a small, self-conscious smile tugging at her lips. “So, yeah, I like bees. They don’t judge.”
Something in my chest twisted. I knew that feeling all too well.
It didn’t matter how many ballparks I had played in; at the end of the day, I was just the Deaf kid from Indiana.
I accidentally let out a soft huff of laughter.
“You promised.”
“I’m not laughing at you,” I said quickly. “Believe me, we have a lot more in common than you think. I’m also not great at the whole peopling thing.”
She arched a brow. “You could’ve fooled me.”
“Seriously. Being with the guys or my family is one thing, but take me out of my element and I freak. Especially at large gatherings or charity functions or—”
“Bachelor auctions?” she offered.
I winced, rubbing the back of my neck. “Yeah, about that . . .”
The words stuck in my throat. I hadn’t planned to bring it up, but here we were, and the memory of last year’s team fundraiser—the lights, the crowd, her hand shooting up to win me for a ridiculous amount of money—still haunted me.
“I should’ve said something sooner,” I started, voice lower.
“The bachelor auction was too much for me. Not because of you. Never because of you. I’m just not great in crowds like that, and when you bid on me, I panicked.
I thought if I played it cool and kept it light, it’d be easier, but I ended up making things . . . weird.”
She blinked, processing. “I thought that you maybe didn’t like me. Or that I’d embarrassed you—”
“No.”
Her expression softened, surprise flickering there before it settled into something warmer. “Okay, I believe you.”
Relief hit me hard. “In any case, I’m sorry about mucking up our date.”
“It’s okay,” she said, turning back to the hive, but not before I caught the curve of her lips beneath her veil. “But just know, if you ever want to hide out with the bees instead of dealing with the rest of the world, you know where to go. They’re excellent listeners.”
I grinned. “I might take you up on that.”
She slotted the last frame into place and latched the lid, then peeled off her gloves, flexing her fingers in the cold air. “Speaking of the bees, they’ve been busy this season. I’m pulling the first harvest next week.”
I leaned against the fence post, watching her. “Would this be a bad time to tell you that I’ve never actually liked honey.”
Her mouth dropped open in exaggerated horror. “You’re joking.”
“I know, I know.” I nodded toward the hives. “Don’t tell the girls.”
She crossed her arms, eyes narrowing with playful determination. “That just means you haven’t tried the right honey. I bet I can change your mind.”
Her words were innocent enough, but that didn’t stop my brain from taking them to the filthiest place possible.
I pictured her spread out on my sheets, thighs open, slick and glistening, my mouth lapping at her nectar while she gasped my name.
Warm, sweet honey dripping down my chin until I couldn’t get enough.
Jesus.
I shifted my stance to hide the sudden rush of blood south, clearing my throat. “I’m willing to be converted,” I told her.
She didn’t seem to pick up on anything—just gave me that earnest, stubborn look that made my chest tight. “I promise, you’ll taste the difference the second it hits your tongue. All it takes is one good lick.”
Fuck me. She was killing me and didn’t even know it.
I swallowed hard, forcing a casual smile. “Then I can’t wait to try it.”
By the time she peeled off the rest of her bee getup, the sun had started to break through the clouds. I walked her back to her door, the short distance feeling too quick.
At her doorstep, I paused. “Hey, do you want to grab a burger tonight? You know, something to celebrate me finally unpacking that last box.”
She tucked a curl behind her ear. “That sounds nice, but I actually have a date.”
I felt my smile freeze in place while everything inside went hot and cold at once. A wave of jealousy surged up so fast, I had to lock my jaw to keep it from showing. I wanted to ask who, where, how long she’d known him, if he made her feel half as seen as I was trying to.
Instead, I shoved it all down and managed a neutral, “Not the funeral guy, I hope.”
She laughed. “God, no. His name is Ethan. We met on a dating app, and he asked me to go whiskey tasting at the new distillery in the old cannery.”
“Whiskey tasting,” I repeated, slower this time.
“Yeah.”
The second wave hit harder. Whiskey. Bella didn’t even like whiskey. She’d said it tasted like “cedar regrets” after Pink had brought a case of the damn stuff home from a series in Louisville.
And this Ethan asshole—because let’s be honest, every Ethan was an asshole—had planned an entire date around something he either didn’t know or didn’t care that she wouldn’t enjoy.
Instead, he was dragging her to some trendy spot to look sophisticated, probably hoping the alcohol would loosen her up for whatever he had planned next.
My stomach twisted again, darker this time.
“Didn’t peg you as a whiskey girl.”
“I’m not really,” she admitted. “Or maybe I am and I just don’t know it yet. He seemed excited about it, and I didn’t want to be difficult.”
There it was. The thing that made my chest ache.
I wanted to tell her she wasn’t difficult. That she deserved dates built around her, not around whatever sounded coolest on paper. I wanted to tell her I’d have taken her somewhere quiet, somewhere warm, somewhere she actually liked.
But wanting something didn’t mean I got to claim it.
“Rain check?” she asked gently, like she could sense the shift even if she didn’t know why.
“Anytime.”
I watched her go inside, waiting until the door clicked shut behind her before dialing my phone.
Diaz answered after the second ring. “Miss me already?”
“You busy tonight?” I asked him, ignoring his question. Smartass.
“Depends,” he said. “What’s up?”
“There’s a new distillery down by the riverfront,” I explained. “You want to check it out?”
He laughed. “You don’t even like whiskey.”
“Neither does she.”