Chapter 21 Bella
Bella
Spring Training: Week One
“Come on, girl, hit that high note with me,” Parker shouted, cranking up the volume on the iconic Whitney Houston ballad until the car’s speakers rattled.
I laughed, covering my face. “Believe me, you do not want me to sing.”
“I do,” she teased. “I want it. Sing it loud and proud, Bella Pink.”
I dropped my hands and rolled my eyes, but the smile tugging at my mouth betrayed me. “Okay, but if I shatter the windshield, that’s on you.”
I took a breath, went for it, and . . . yikes. Poor Whitney. This was disrespectful to her legacy.
Parker sang with her whole chest, hair whipping around her face like she was starring in her own music video. At least she could carry a tune.
The road stretched out ahead of us, flanked by bare trees and open fields dusted with frost. March still clung to winter in the mornings, but by midday, the sun had burned off the chill. Parker had the windows cracked just enough to let in the fresh, pine-scented air.
We had been driving for hours, and according to the GPS, we were still about an hour outside of Awful.
That left plenty of time for our diva pop ballads playlist. We had already cycled through two different Broadway original soundtracks, plus Parker’s lengthy explanation for why the 2022 movie album of Chicago was ten times better than the original stage production.
Apparently, she had a thing for Catherine Zeta-Jones, who, in her own words, could “step on her and she would thank her.”
“It feels good to get away for a few days” I told her, resting my head back against the seat as the song faded out. “I needed a distraction.”
Parker nodded, her voice softening a little. “From missing your baseball boy?”
“From everything. Between classes and work and our budding honey empire, it feels like my brain has been moving a million miles a minute lately.”
She patted the hand resting in my lap. “I get it. Sometimes we gotta get away from the people and places we love to breathe. I find that makes coming home feel so much sweeter.”
“Are you speaking from experience?”
“Maybe.” She gave a small, complicated smile, the kind that didn't quite reach her eyes. “Awful is small. Really small. Most of my friends ended up married to whatever jerkoff they dated in high school, and that just . . . isn’t in my plans. Few of us get out.”
I turned toward her. “But you did.”
That was the other thing we had talked a lot about during our drive.
From waiting tables in a Parisian café to teaching English off the coast of Vietnam and running the radio station—as in, the only radio station—in Antarctica for a summer, Parker had spent the better part of a decade traveling the world.
“For a long time, I thought I’d never come back,” she admitted. Her finger tightened slightly on the wheel.
“And now?”
Parker shrugged. “It feels good to be home. Don’t get me wrong, moving out from under my mom’s and sister’s thumbs is at the top of my list. But the wide-open spaces, the way the sky feels endless—yeah, I missed that.
I tried the world and it was amazing. But it didn’t feel like mine the way this does. ”
Parker’s words lingered in the car, hanging in the space between the windshield and the wide stretch of blue sky ahead of us. I watched the horizon roll on, uninterrupted.
I understood exactly what she meant. The mine part.
Rose City felt like that to me in a way nowhere else ever had. It was the first place that felt like a choice instead of an obligation, like I’d planted myself there on purpose and was finally letting myself grow.
Dang it. Jared would’ve been so proud of my plant analogy.
The second we entered the Grande Ronde Valley, everything clicked into place. Holy fucking gorgeousness.
Rolling hills unfurled in soft waves of emerald, dotted everywhere with wildflowers. Bright pops of yellow balsamroot, purple lupine, and white and pink patches of phlox carpeted the slopes like someone had spilled paint. Cattle grazed in the distance, dark blobs against the green.
The road dipped between the Blue Mountains on one side and the Wallowa Mountains on the other, two national forests framing this unexpected pocket of paradise.
And much like that Brad Pitt movie, a river ran through it.
Feeding everything, turning the valley into a lush contrast against the desert we had just crossed.
Parker slowed the car a little so I could take it in. “Worth the drive?”
“Oh, yeah,” I breathed.
By the time we rolled into the handful of brick buildings lining the street—as in, the only street—in downtown Awful, the sun had started to set, turning the valley gold.
Parker parked in front of a narrow storefront with the “For Lease” sign still taped crookedly in the window and gestured toward it with pride.
“Here she is,” she said. “My future empire.”
I followed her toward the door, blanching when she reached for the handle. “Don’t we need a key or something?”
“Please.” She snorted. “This is Awful. We don’t even have a sheriff’s department.”
“So what happens if somebody commits a crime?”
She smiled wickedly. “Public shaming and retribution.”
My eyebrows shot up before I could stop them. For a second, I just stared at her, trying to decide how much of that was a joke.
We stepped inside and were immediately assaulted by the smell of old wood and fresh paint. Parker had already started transforming the space into her soon-to-be spa sanctuary—a portable massage table here, a stack of unopened boxes there, each one labeled in bold, slanted handwriting.
A rolling cart held neatly arranged bottles of oil and lotions, their glass catching the last of the golden light spilling in through the front windows. The walls were still bare in places, patched and uneven, but she’d already begun softening them with swatches of warm earth tones.
Awful might have been tiny, but Parker was dreaming big.
“It’s rough, I know,” she admitted, running a hand through her icy blonde hair.
“But if you can imagine it, this will be the waiting area. Packed full of plants and this stunning, vintage couch I found at a flea market in Portland. In the back, there’s room for two treatment rooms. And the best part?
All natural ingredients, with milk sourced from Duffy Dairy and honey from my new friend’s business, Comb Sweet Comb. ”
I smiled, feeling a flutter of excitement. “Your new friend?”
“I mean, she’s a total smokeshow, and if I thought I had a shot at something beyond friendship, I would go for it.”
The words hit me sideways, catching somewhere between surprise and, okay, flattery.
“Relax,” she quickly added. “I know you’ve got your baseballer and you’re very clearly into him. I’m happy to just be friends.”
“And collaborators.”
Parker beamed, bumping her shoulder into mine. “That’s right. And collaborators.” She grabbed my hand and quickly tugged me back the way we had come. “Now, let’s go next door so you can meet the warden.”
I blinked. “The who?”
A cheerful bell jingled when we popped into the neighboring shop.
The Cat Who Got the Cream. The place was small but bright, with pastel walls, a long counter displaying tubs of ice cream in every color imaginable, and a chalkboard menu listing flavors like “Turtlesaurus Rex” and “Ruth Bader Ginger.”
Behind the counter stood a woman who could only be Parker's older sister. Catarina Duffy was tall, easily six feet, with broad shoulders and long legs that made her look like she could stride across any battlefield. A modern-day Amazonian.
One who wore faded band shirts and denim shorts, even in March.
Intricate black-and-gray tattoos snaked up both arms, disappearing beneath her hacked-off sleeves. Her icy blonde hair matched her sister’s, only longer, but where Parker was all vintage charm and playful prints, Cat radiated something harder, more guarded.
She looked up from scooping ice cream for a customer, her expression neutral until she saw Parker. Then it softened . . . a fraction.
“Well, if it isn’t my dearest sister,” she said, voice low and dry. She wiped her hands on the towel tucked into her waistband. “And you must be the honey girl.”
Parker laughed. “Arabella, the almighty honeybee queen, meet Catarina, ice cream overlord and tyrannical sister.”
Cat snorted, unimpressed. “Please, she’s just upset I don’t let her get away with any bullshit.”
“That’s exactly what a warden would say,” Parker shot back, grinning as she turned to me. “Don’t let the tattoos and sarcasm fool you, though. She’s a total softie.”
Cat’s mouth twitched despite herself as her sharp gaze slid my way. “It’s Cat,” she said, holding her hand out to me.
That was when I noticed the tattoo on the back of it.
A small, precise outline of a cow with delicate shading that made the spots look almost three-dimensional. Below it, in tiny script, were the words “Got Milk?” in a retro font. It was unexpected for someone who looked like she could bench-press me if she wanted to.
“Bella,” I said, nodding toward her hair as we shook. “I like your cow.”
Cat glanced down at it like she’d forgotten it was there. “There’s plenty more where that came from.”
“Wait until you see the tractor on her ass.” Parker hopped up to sit on the edge of the counter, swinging her legs like a kid who owned the place. To be fair, she kind of did. “Very on brand.”
Cat rolled her eyes and gestured toward the display case. “You want anything? First scoop is on the house.”
I scanned the flavors. “What’s in The Morning After?”
“Maple ice cream, fluffy pancake chunks, salty bacon bits covered in chocolate, and a maple syrup swirl.”
“Sold.”
She handed me a small cup piled high, the maple swirl glistening under the shop lights. I took a bite and nearly moaned aloud. Where had this ice cream been all my life? And how the hell was it so creamy?
“It’s incredible, right?” Parker asked, wagging her brows.
“Sooo freaking good.”
Cat’s expression softened another fraction. “We use the dairy’s cream straight from the tank, nothing processed. It makes a difference.”
We ended up leaning against the counter, the conversation slipping easily into shop talk.
Cat explained how supply chains in a town this small were less about contracts and more about relationships, and I told her about Comb Sweet Comb.
More specifically, our ideas for the Bee Intimate line of products.
By the time another customer wandered in, the three of us had already half-mapped out an idea for a shared stamp card. Not just for one business, but all three.
“Buy a pint here, get a stamp. Get a facial next door, get a stamp.” Cat’s eyes lit up. “Then, when they fill the card, they get either a free scoop, discounted treatment, or product credit for Comb Sweet Comb.”
“Or some kind of exclusive collab drop?” I offered. “Like a honey-infused ice cream or mini honey lip balm.”
My brain buzzed, ideas stacking on top of each other. “Or it could be an experience. We could raffle off a quarterly event to anybody who gets their cards stamped.”
Parker wrapped an arm around my shoulders, tugging me into her side. I felt downright dainty sandwiched between the Duffy sisters. “Didn’t I tell you she was brilliant?”
I felt my cheeks warm.
“I bet we could even get a few of the baseball boys to come out for the spa’s grand opening,” Parker hedged. “You know, seeing as you have an in.”
Cat arched a brow. “What’s that mean?”
“Bella’s dating a Rose City Roaster.”
Something shifted in Cat’s face. Nothing dramatic, but her jaw tightened and her gaze went distant for a second.
“Oh, really?” she asked, voice careful, like she was stepping around broken glass.
“Bennett King,” I told her. “He’s . . . my boyfriend.”
I still hadn’t gotten used to saying it aloud yet. Boyfriend. Hell, I still had trouble believing it sometimes.
Cat’s expression didn’t change much, but the air around her seemed to thicken. “Is that the same team that he plays for?”
I had a fairly good idea of who the he in question was.
Parker snorted and hopped off the counter. “You can say his name, Cat. He’s not Bloody Mary.”
Cat shot her a look that could have curdled milk. “Might as well be,” she mumbled under her breath.
“Cat and Roman have had beef since we were kids. And it’s not some Hatfields and McCoys, feuding families bullshit because she gets along fine with his brothers and sister. It’s just . . . them. Always has been. You’d think they’d have grown out of it by now.”
“Some things don’t change,” Cat offered.
I glanced between them, feeling the undercurrent pull tighter. I didn’t know the history between Cat Duffy and Roman Garcia, but something told me that nobody, not even her own sister, knew the full story.
But judging by the way Cat’s shoulders had gone rigid and how she’d soured at the mere mention of Roman’s name, one thing was for sure. Whatever had or hadn’t happened between Cat and Roman wasn’t finished.
Not even close.
Eventually, Parker checked her phone. “We should head out to the farm if we want daylight. Bella’s dying to see the cows.”
I laughed, a little embarrassed at how excited I was. “Don’t make fun of me. Cows are cool.”
Cat raised an eyebrow, but there was a hint of amusement in it now. “They’re a bunch of smelly, stubborn, old bitches. But yeah, they’re cool.”
“Just like somebody else I know,” Parker shot over her shoulder.
Cat’s hand disappeared beneath the counter.
“Run for it, Bella!” Parker yelped, already pivoting on her heel.
She grabbed my wrist and bolted for the door just as something, probably a towel, maybe another scoop of The Morning After—I didn’t stick around long enough to find out—went sailing past where her head had been a second earlier.