Chapter 4
Renleigh
This is what my life boils down to. Mango smoothies.
It’s truly the one thing that brings me joy, and I look forward to this damn cup of pureed fruit every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday while I wait for Dad to finish with his physical therapist. I join his therapist, Heather, for the first half most mornings, which ends up being a bit of a workout for me, so I feel like the sugar reward is warranted.
Plus, I like this lime green chair with the bright yellow pillow shaped like a giant Tootsie Roll.
And I love the romance book swap in the corner.
I’m tucking my latest read back on the shelf and pulling out Wild Kiss by Kacey Shea when a shadow casts over my lap, blocking the light from the nearby window.
“That looks like a good one.”
I don’t know how I recognize Hunter Reddick’s voice, given I’ve spoken to him for no more than a total of ten minutes, ever. But there he is, confirming my hunch when I glance up at him.
I nod toward the counter.
“You going to order something?”
“I’ll get to it,” he says, perusing the selection of books.
“You read romance?” I arch a brow, expecting him to make some crack about my choice in literature.
That’s what most people who don’t really read the genre do because they’re missing out, but instead he leans in and pulls out the Amalie Howard historical I just put back, and thumbs through the pages before meeting my gaze.
“This one was good, but have you read her romantasy?”
My mouth falls open, because how the hell does he know that word?
“Uh, yeah. I have.” I’m blinking more than normal. I feel it. It’s because I feel like I’m being pranked.
“I got it for my mom for her birthday, and she sent it to me when she was finished. Which reminds me, I should probably give it back. Mom’s funny about keeping her paperbacks on her shelf.
She probably still has the placeholder there.
” He chuckles and slides the book back in place while I continue to stare at him.
“What?” He moves toward the smoothie counter and pulls a menu from the plastic stand. “Is it so shocking that I read?”
I huff out a single laugh.
“No, but yeah. Maybe. A little. You read romance? And you know the word romantasy?” I realize this is the pot calling the kettle and all that by judging him, but also, he does not fit the romance reader profile. Like . . . at all. And maybe I’m a bit protective of it.
“I read everything. Sometimes I need a happily-ever-after to follow a good thriller, ya know? Not every book ends happily. And some shit gets dark.”
He slumps into the chair opposite me as I shake my head and blink a few more times before deciding to just let him have this one. Hot, romance-reading pitcher. So, he gets one green flag. It’s still in a sea of red ones.
“Shouldn’t you be at practice or something?” I flip my phone over on my thigh, checking the time. My dad should be done soon.
“Off day for me. I threw a bullpen this morning. I don’t throw again for two days. You should come. We play Tulsa.” He shifts in his seat and pulls his phone from his pocket.
“Thanks, but I’ve seen my fill of Mavericks games. I grew up here.” I wrinkle my lips and shrug.
“I get that, but . . . you’ve never seen me pitch.” He’s persistent, and I almost reply that I have seen him pitch—on TV. But I don’t want to give him that satisfaction.
“Tempting, but I work nights,” I say instead.
“Well, good news—it’s a day game. Here, give me your phone.” He sits up tall and holds out an open palm, which I stare at skeptically.
“I’m not going to hack it. I just want to transfer the tickets to you.”
My brow puckers.
“You already got tickets?” I have yet to accept this invitation. Is that what he was doing on his phone?
“Yeah, Jackie sent them over when I texted her just now. You know Jackie, right? She’s in PR or something—”
I raise a hand, but keep my phone where it rests, on my leg.
“I know Jackie. We went to high school together. And you’re awfully presumptuous, aren’t you? I haven’t said yes yet.”
“Exactly. Yet.” His lips twist up on the ends into this fucking charming smirk that pulls a light laugh from me. Damn him.
“Fine, I’ll think about it.”
I hold my phone out but keep a good grip on it.
No way am I giving him full control. He scoffs but lets me have my way, cupping the back of my hand in his palm as he taps his phone against mine.
His fingertips brush against my knuckles when he’s done, and the tickle nearly makes me drop my phone.
I clutch it fast, then pull it into my lap and bury it beneath my hands.
“Are you going to order something? Or are you just here to harass me?” My hands are still buzzing, which I don’t like at all. I need to regain my cool.
Hunter tilts his head, his eyes crinkling a little on the edges with his soft grin as he rests his elbows on his knees and clasps his phone between his hands.
“I did come in here for a smoothie. You’re right. You’re also very distracting.” He waggles a finger at me as he stands and makes his way to the counter.
“I’ll have what she’s having,” he says to the college girl working the counter.
He leans against the counter as he taps his phone to the payment device, and it’s obvious he’s waiting for the sweet blonde with her hair pulled into a net to swoon over him.
She doesn’t as much as remove one of her AirPods, however, which gives me smug satisfaction.
“They get ballplayers in here a lot. Just so you know. I’m sure you’re used to the smoothie girls fawning over you back home at—” I stop myself from dropping the name of his college, Pacific Coastal University. “Wherever you went to school.”
“You got me,” he says with a wink. “Some guys are players, but me . . . I only love and leave the smoothie employees. If a woman can’t blend ice and banana, I’m not interested.”
I purse my lips, staving off the itch to laugh at his joke.
“You know, it’s possible you’re all wrong about me,” he says.
My head falls to one side as I study him for a beat.
“Hmm, is that so?” He has a point. He did surprise me with the romance books.
“Absolutely. For starters, I happen to believe in exclusivity when it comes to dating,” he says, taking his smoothie from the employee and pulling the wrapper from the straw.
“Okay, that’s fair. But . . . how often do you start and stop these exclusive arrangements?” My gut says he’s working with a loophole in this argument.
“Well, I’ve had four girlfriends. The shortest relationship lasted six weeks—she was a football fan,” he whispers as he sits across from me.
He wraps his lips around his straw, puckering as he glances up and squints at the ceiling tiles.
“I guess maybe four or five short dating attempts, too, after the draft.”
“Dating.” I call out that word as I narrow my gaze on him. He means sleeping around. He can play gentleman all he wants, but no pitcher with his body and buzz is a saint.
“I mean, yeah, there was always a dinner involved. But I’m an adult. The women are adults. We’re adults. Like you and I . . . we’re adults.” He waggles a finger between us, as if we’re a thing.
I shudder with a silent laugh.
“Yeah, we’re adults. And that’s where that connection stops. I can buy my own dinner, thank you very much.” I palm my phone and wake the screen to distract myself with the news or some doomscrolling.
“I’m fine skipping the dinner part, too. I mean, I prefer a little romance. You know, some good foreplay. But if you’re not into that type of thing . . .”
I glance up through my lashes, a little shocked at his brazen proposition.
“Are you serious right now?” My brow draws in tighter.
Hunter pulls the straw from his lips to stir it in his cup. He sucks in his bottom lip, and I brace myself for his next line. He blows out hard, though, practically raspberrying his lips.
“What flavor is this?” He pulls the lid off his cup and sniffs inside.
“Mango,” I respond.
He nods slowly, getting up from his seat and heading toward the trash can. He tosses his nearly full cup away, then waves a hand to get the attention from the worker, who is deep into her phone and AirPods.
“Huh?” She pops her head up.
“I’m having an allergic reaction. Can I get a big cup of water?” His words are starting to slur, and the plumpness of his bottom lip is becoming noticeable. Holy shit, I may have inadvertently just killed Hunter Reddick.
The worker fills a large cup with water from the rinse sink, but she’s moving pretty slowly, so I get to my feet and step up beside Hunter to keep an eye on him.
His cheeks are puffing out now, like a chipmunk storing nuts.
It’s terribly unattractive, but of everything he’s tried so far today, there’s something about this that gets to me.
He’s on the verge of anaphylactic shock, and here I am about to give him his shot.
“I’ll come to the game,” I say, moving a palm to his face. I press my thumb into the swollen cheek as he lets out what I think is a laugh.
“I’m not faking this just for sympathy. I’m incredibly allergic to mango.” He takes the cup from the worker and gulps down water while pulling at the collar of his T-shirt.
“Do you need an EPIPen? Or do you have pills or something?” Shit, I’m panicking now.
He shakes his head and continues to stare at me over the rim of the cup as he gulps down water.
“I think I’m okay. I didn’t drink much. Can I get more of this?” He shakes the cup toward the worker, and she rolls her eyes, annoyed.
“Uh, maybe hustle,” I snap at her. That earns me a glare.
Wow.
I turn my attention back to Hunter to find him chuckling. He’s still puffy, but the expansion seems to have paused. Now, we just need it to reverse.
“If I knew all I had to do was flirt with death to get you to go out with me, I would have led with a pack of peanut M&Ms and a melon spread.” He takes the refilled cup and drinks immediately, but the smile remains in his eyes as he stares at me over the cup.
“Don’t get ahead of yourself, Tiger. I said I’d come to your game. I didn’t say anything about a date.” I’m entertaining the idea, though. I’ll keep that part to myself.
“Ah, okay. Well, I better kill it on the mound. Maybe then . . .”
His eyes soften on my face, and the damn tingles that struck the back of my hands when he touched me rush down my arms this time. Thankfully, my phone buzzing against the chair I left it in gives me an excuse to gain a little space.
I answer when I see my father’s name.
“Hey. You all done?” I stuff my keys and wallet into the pocket of my hoodie and hold up a finger to Hunter. My dad usually waits for me in the physical therapy facility lobby so I can help maneuver his chair through the doors and down the curb.
“I am. Look out the window.”
I pop my head up at his clue, and when I spot him standing, albeit with a walker wedged into his gut, my knees buckle a tad.
“Holy shit, Dad!” I end our call and leave Hunter alone to deal with his allergy as I push through the smoothie shop door to greet my dad.
“Did you know this was coming today?” I circle him, checking out the various tools on the walker, like the variable brakes that will keep my dad from accidentally falling into a downhill sprint.
“Not at all. Heather surprised me . . . with it. She said . . . I can still use the chair . . . you know. Fatigue.”
I nod through my grin. I know my dad, and now that he’s made it to this step, I’ll be hard pressed to get him to take it easy in that chair. There’s no such thing as too much practice in his mind. Coach mentality, I suppose.
“I survived. Thought you’d want to know.
” Hunter’s voice breaks into my celebration bubble, and my pulse ratchets up.
My dad recognizes him immediately, and despite the way his stroke sometimes distorts his mouth, it seems to have left his smirk unscathed.
My dad’s eyes shift to me and I immediately look away.
It feels as though I’ve been caught. Doing what?
I have no idea. But definitely not something I want to be caught doing.
“Sorry I abandoned you in there. Glad the water worked. You should probably be more careful with your allergies.” I clear my throat, doing my best to sound platonic, almost clinical.
“That’s quite . . . a fastball you’ve got.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, knowing my father’s fan fest has now begun, and Hunter’s ego is about to shine.
“Thank you. See? I was trying to tell Renleigh here that I’m pretty good at this baseball thing.
It took me an hour to talk her into coming to one of my games.
And they’re great seats!” Hunter steps toward my dad, reaching his hand out to shake.
My father adjusts his grip on his new walker and takes his hand awkwardly.
Still, though, I notice the slight flex in my father’s forearm.
He put as much squeeze into that as he could to make his point—he’s still Dad.
“If she won’t . . . go, I will.” My dad coughs out a laugh as Hunter’s gaze shifts to me.
“Why don’t you join her?” he suggests.
Son-of-a-bitch!
“Love to!” My dad’s enthusiasm leaves me zero excuses. Looks like I’m locked into watching Hunter’s game. An afternoon at the ballpark with my dad isn’t the worst way to pass the time. In fact, most of my favorite memories involve this very thing.
“Sounds like I’ll see you two on Thursday, then.” Hunter turns his body toward mine, mouth curved up on one side. “It’s a date.”
“It’s not a date,” I respond under my breath, thankful that my father is busy working to turn his walker in the right direction.
Hunter’s head tilts when our eyes meet.
“Hmm, it’s kind of a date.”
“Yeah? That’s how your dates roll, Mr. Number One Draft Pick? You take fathers along to chaperone?” I roll my eyes as I laugh, and turn to follow my dad along the sidewalk, ready to support him as he takes slow steps toward our car.
“If that’s what it takes for a date with you, Renleigh Blackwood, then yes. I welcome Mr. Blackwood’s company,” Hunter hollers.
“You can call me Coach . . . Blackwood.” My dad’s been paying more attention than I thought.
“Yes, sir. Coach it is,” Hunter says, and I don’t bother to fill him in on my father’s history with the game. I don’t need them bonding any more than they have already. I’m doomed enough as it is.