Chapter 7 #2
“Thanks,” she says, her voice softer than before.
“And yeah, my dad was born in Sweetwater. He went to Florida State for college, though. He played there, met my mom, and they moved back to Sweetwater when the coaching job opened up. So, thirty years or so? He’d still be out there if he could handle the stress of it all.
It’s not so much the standing, but not being able to kick dirt on the umpire that really holds him back. ”
She breathes out a soft laugh that I mimic. I can see the coach’s fire in her dad based on the few interactions we’ve had. He reminds me a lot of the ones I’ve played for.
“Did you ever think about leaving Sweetwater?” I chew on the inside of my mouth when she sighs.
“I did leave, for three and a half years. I went to Tennessee to study psychology. I’d like to work in family therapy.
Of course, I need a license to do that, and since I’m fifteen credit hours shy of my degree, it looks like I’m more likely to renew my liquor serving license before I ever get an opportunity to help people navigate complex relationships.
I give her a half-hearted smile.
“I mean, isn’t that sort of what bartending is?” I shrug, and she laughs.
“Yeah, I guess. I don’t know that anyone in Sweetwater listens to the shit I say, though.”
It’s quiet for a few long seconds before I respond.
“I listen to you. For example, I now know I should ask what’s in a smoothie before I drink it.”
“You probably didn’t need me to tell you that,” she says with a short laugh.
“I shouldn’t have, but clearly, I did.” I rub my palm along my neck, the visceral memory of the itching and swelling still very front-of-mind.
“Okay, well, one person listens, then. Of course, you aren’t from Sweetwater, so do you really count?” She scrutinizes me with one eye squinting, and I slap my palm to my chest.
“Ouch! I’d like to think I count. Man, you are harsh!”
“I warned you I was hungry.”
I nod, checking my mirrors as I switch lanes to the left so I can lay on the gas and get us to the city a few minutes faster.
“You did. And I listened. One order of IKEA meatballs coming right up.”
I manage to get to the IKEA parking lot in under an hour, and as promised, I have a dish of hot Swedish meatballs in Renleigh’s palms, and we’re on our way up an escalator with enormous blue shopping bags looped over our forearms.
“Are you sure you don’t want one?” Renleigh holds a single meatball out on a fork, but I shake my head. I got a glimpse of this girl in hangry mode. I’m not denying her a single calorie.
“I’ll wait and grab something on the way out, maybe a smoothie,” I tease.
She smirks, then pops the morsel into her mouth and chews.
“Let’s do this,” I announce as we set off into the maze of strangely spelled closet organizers and end tables.
Renleigh takes a seat at one of the kitchen counters while I peruse the first mock apartment. She swivels in the bright orange circle poised atop a chrome pole, and I flop back on the oversized canvas sofa.
“This feels like me,” I say, glancing around what is definitely a masculine, college-aimed space.
Renleigh wrinkles her nose as she gets up and tosses her empty carton in a nearby trash.
“It looks too messy. You need something that looks like you cleaned it even though you didn’t. Let’s keep going.” She holds out a hand and helps me to my feet, and our fingertips tangle for an extra second that feels both awesome and awkward.
“Messy, got it. What exactly makes a living room messy?” I back up into the next design, running my hand along the wooden back of a chair.
There’s a black leather sofa in this space, and the walls are covered in dark wood paneling.
I don’t know that I want to rework my rental condo so much that I have to completely dismantle the walls when I leave, but I do like the rich wood look.
“This is neater, but still not quite right. You want the upholstery to be low-maintenance, and black is good, or brown. But this feels too cold. We need something that also says . . . take a nap here.”
“Nap. Yeah, I like naps.”
I follow Renleigh through a few more spaces, and when we come to a soft leather sofa, we both pause with our hands cupping our chins.
“What do you think?” I quirk a brow and she meets my gaze.
“We should test it,” she says, rushing around the gold and white coffee table to slouch on one end of the sofa while I do the same at the other. We prop our feet up on the coffee table, and stare ahead at the cardboard television propped on a matching entertainment center across from us.
“Yeah,” I say.
“See? Home. You can practically envision your Sunday night here, winding down with a good bowl of cereal, the remote stuffed somewhere between these cushions,” she says, her hand diving into the space about a half second before mine.
“Oh, sorry,” I say, my palm pressed against the back of her hand in the crease. I don’t pull away because her eyes flashed to mine, and time has stopped.
“It’s okay,” she says, dragging her hand away slowly. The feel of it grazing along mine produces a pleasant tickle. My fingers curl in response as I pull my hand into my own lap.
“It’s a good nap couch, don’t you think?” I twist so my back is against the armrest, and I pull one leg up so I’m facing her with my body open and ready for her to crawl into the space I made.
She shakes her head with a sharp laugh, and gets up from the sofa.
“Nice try, Hunter.”
I exhale and lick my wounds, but I’m quick to rebound from rejection. I have to be. I play a sport where failure is built into the stats. Achieving thirty percent at anything in this game is to be highly successful. I didn’t expect to bat a thousand with Renleigh tonight.
I pull the card for the sofa, along with the matching living room pieces, then follow Renleigh into the next department where she helps pick out a dining table, dishes and silverware, and some linens.
By the time we make it to the register, I’ve rung up about ten grand in Ikea furnishings and décor, most of which will be delivered.
I do, however, get to take home one very important item—the bookcase.
Renleigh waits near the exit with the long box on a rolling cart, and I back my truck to the loading area. It’s starting to sprinkle, so one of the employees rips off a large sheet of plastic to use as a tarp, and Renleigh helps me wrap the box as I slide it into the truck bed.
Our ride home is a lot lighter, and I’m careful not to drill too deeply with questions about her dad and her coming home to care for him.
I gleaned enough details for now on the trip out, and I get the sense she isn’t keen on sharing personal information with people she doesn’t know well.
So, that’s my next step—getting to know her well.
And to do that, I the two of us should spend a lot more time together.
Maybe, say, a sleepover.
“You know, I could really use a hand putting the SNUFLEUPERGIS together.” I make up the name of the shelf because there’s no way I am ever going to remember what it’s really called. My attempt makes Renleigh laugh.
“You should call Roddy. I bet he’s got a free evening.” She smiles at me with tight lips, and I groan teasingly.
“Are you really relegating me to spending my night with Roddy? I’m trying to be smooth here.” I pull off the highway and turn down the long rural road that leads toward Sweetwater’s town center.
“Mmm, you are smooth, Hunter Reddick. And I bet those lines get the job done with most girls.” She flashes me a smug grin, and I hate that she thinks I’m a player.
“I can’t say I’ve thrown out that line before.”
“Oh, am I your first IKEA date?” Her expression reads that she’s sure she’s not.
“Uh, yeah. I’m not buying out the IKEA catalogue every weekend to impress the ladies. I honestly thought we’d have some fun. And didn’t we? Have fun?”
She blinks a few times when I glance at her, and her lips part but remain silent. I sigh through my nose as I look back to the roadway.
I turn into her historic neighborhood and wind my way toward the Blackwood home.
As I pull to a stop, Renleigh unbuckles her seat belt and lunges across the center console, pressing her lips to my cheek.
I freeze at her touch, then slowly swivel my head as her fingertips graze against my jawline and I turn to face her.
“I did have fun. A lot of it, actually.” She sucks in her bottom lip, and her eyes flit to my mouth.
Fuck it.
I wrap my hand around her wrist, holding her hand against my face while my other hand moves to nudge the bottom of her chin, coaxing her mouth up just enough that I can press a soft kiss to her lips.
I restrain myself, limiting our kiss to a chaste, dusting of skin on skin, though it takes every ounce of will power in my body to stop myself from nipping at her plump bottom lip and dragging her body into my lap.
“You sure you don’t want to come back to my place and help me build the . . .” I look up through my lashes, and she chuckles.
“The SNUFLEUPERGIS?”
I drop my gaze back to hers, and my mouth curves into a faint grin.
“Yes, the SNUFLEUPERGIS. What do you say?”
My knuckle tickles her jawline, and her gaze narrows and grows more certain.
“They give you one of those Allen wrenches for that. I think you’ll be just fine.” She slides back into her seat and pushes open her door, letting herself out before I have a chance to run over there and do it for her.
“I had a nice time, Hunter Reddick, number one draft pick.”
And for the second time in less than a week, she leaves me with those words and a cock so hard I could use it to pinch hit in tomorrow’s game.