Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
Connor’s engine was still ticking as it cooled when Mac walked up the drive. The house was dark except for the living room lamp, the glow warm and unassuming through the front window.
He opened the door before she knocked.
“Hey,” he said, easy. Like this was already a thing they did.
“Hey.” She stepped inside, the air cooler than outside, faintly fresh but not scented.
She smiled and looked around. The furnishings were sparse but showed signs of life—a couch, a coffee table with a stack of mail pushed to one side, a throw blanket folded but clearly used. No extra chairs. No pictures on the walls. Only a flat-screen TV.
“Drink?” he asked. “Beer, sparkling water or…milk?” He flashed a quick smile.
For a second, she was tempted to say milk, just to see his reaction. “Beer’s fine.”
He handed an open bottle to her, their fingers brushing, then set a bowl of popcorn on the table between them like it was a neutral third party.
“So,” he said, picking up the remote and handing it to her. “Dealer’s choice.”
She sat, tucking one leg under herself as she scrolled through the options. He watched her more than the screen, how she leaned slightly forward, how decisive she was even when she said nothing.
She paused. “Have you seen The Intern?”
His mouth curved, small but real. “Yeah. I like that one.”
“Good.” She hit play and settled back.
They sat with space between them at first. Enough to be polite.
The movie found its rhythm quickly. Anne Hathaway’s character moved too fast, carried too much. Robert De Niro showed up and stayed. Mac laughed once, quietly, when he folded his suit just so.
“See?” Connor murmured. “That’s respect.”
She nodded, eyes on the screen. “Details matter.”
He smiled at the screen. “I always forget how much I like this movie.”
“You’ve seen it more than once?” she teased.
“Don’t judge me.”
“I absolutely am.” Her eyes crinkled. “But it’s favorable.”
“Good,” he said. “I was hoping to make a decent impression.”
She looked at him then, just long enough. “You’re doing fine.”
A few minutes later, her shoulder brushed his.
Neither of them moved.
The popcorn disappeared in unspoken turns. At some point, his arm shifted along the back of the couch—not around her, just there.
A possibility, not a claim.
Halfway through, he turned his head to say something—dry, understated—and the light from the screen caught his cheekbone just right.
She squinted. “Hold on.”
“What?”
“You have something…” She leaned closer, studying him. “Right there.”
He rubbed at his cheek with his thumb. “I thought I got it.”
“What is it?”
“Something my sister put on me to hide a freckle.” He chuckled and shook his head. “Is it bad?”
“It’s…festive.”
He snorted. “Fantastic.”
She leaned in and kissed the spot. Quick, precise. Barely a thing.
“There,” she said, settling back. “Problem solved.”
He didn’t speak for a second.
When he did, his voice was steady. “Thank you.”
The movie went on.
Their legs touched now. Her foot rested lightly against his ankle. She let herself lean just enough that it felt natural.
No rush.
When the credits rolled, neither of them reached for the remote right away.
“That was a good call,” he said finally.
“Yeah.” She smiled. “It holds up.”
She stood first, stretching. “I should go.”
“Okay.” He walked her to the door, not lingering, not stepping into her space.
Outside, the night was warm and quiet. Cicadas somewhere in the trees. A streetlight humming softly.
She paused on the porch, turned back.
“Thanks for tonight,” she said. “This was…nice.”
He nodded. “I’m glad you came.”
She hesitated, just a beat, then leaned in and kissed him again. Not the shimmer this time. Something fuller.
When she stepped back, her smile was soft. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Tomorrow.”
She walked away without looking back.
Connor closed the door, leaned against it for a moment and let the quiet settle. Not empty, not loud.
Just right.
The next day, Mac was rinsing berries at the sink when her phone buzzed on the counter.
She ignored it at first, letting the water run cold over her hands, listening to the soft knock of fruit against the colander. When it buzzed again, she glanced over, half expecting to see Bella’s name.
Instead, the name she saw stopped her.
David Chapin.
She dried her hands on a towel before picking it up and reading the text.
Hey, Mac. I’m in charge of organizing the vintage baseball game for the Fourth this year.
One of our players had to bow out, and after seeing you play in the park the other day, I thought I’d ask if you’d be interested in participating.
No pressure at all. Just wanted to ask before I filled the spot.
Mac read it twice.
Then once more.
The vintage baseball game had been a part of Good Hope summers for as far back as Mac could remember.
Even the timing around Independence Day never changed.
The game, played by nineteenth-century rules while the players wore the uniforms of the era, always drew large crowds.
She pictured it immediately—wool uniforms, underhand pitches, no gloves.
The stands full to bursting. A whole town hoping the Good Hope team would beat Egg Harbor, the way they usually did.
No pressure at all.
Her chest tightened anyway.
She set the phone back down without replying and leaned her hip against the counter, the cool edge pressing through her jeans. She stared out the window at the quiet yard beyond. It was a good thing. A kind thing. A simple invitation to participate.
Still, the familiar weight settled in—light but unmistakable.
Mac exhaled and reached for her coffee, then stopped as she heard sounds coming from Connor’s place. His front door opened.
She grabbed her keys before she could change her mind and stepped outside.
Connor was halfway down his front steps when he saw her. “Hey,” he said, surprised and pleased in equal measure. “Perfect timing.”
She lifted her phone slightly. “Got a minute?”
“Sure.” He shifted, unlocked the door that he’d just closed and pushed it open. “Come in.”
The house looked the same as it had the other night—spare, comfortable, lived-in. She didn’t sit. Neither did he.
She told him about the message, keeping it factual.
Connor’s face lit almost immediately. “That’s great,” he said. “Of course he asked you. Did you see yourself out there? You were…” He searched for the word, then shrugged. “Natural.”
She smiled because that was the expected response. Because part of her even believed it.
“The whole town shows up for that game,” he went on. “You’d love it.”
She nodded. “Yeah.”
“You should do it,” he said without hesitation. He said it easily, like her answer was obvious. “I mean, if you want. But it sounds like exactly the kind of thing you’ve been talking about. Low stakes. Fun.”
Low stakes.
Mac shifted her weight, the phone warm in her hand. She hadn’t realized she was gripping it so hard until she loosened her fingers.
“Maybe,” she said. “I haven’t answered yet.”
“Well,” he said gently, smiling, “you’ve got time.”
She nodded again.
He didn’t ask how it made her feel. Not because he didn’t care. Because, to him, what was being offered was obvious. Opportunity. Community. Joy.
All good things.
She tucked her phone into her pocket and met his gaze. “Yeah,” she said. “I do.”
They stood there for a moment longer than necessary, the afternoon stretching quietly between them.
When she finally stepped back toward her door, the invitation still hummed under her skin.
Connor turned as a familiar vehicle rumbled up the street.
Mac paused at her door.
Callum hopped out of his pickup, the bed of the truck stacked high with furniture.
Connor grinned. “Didn’t realize you were back.”
“We got in last night.”
Connor scanned the cab. “Where’s Brynn—and Parker?”
A soft look warmed his brother’s face. “Brynn’s at her mom’s. Parker’s with her. They’re baking cookies.”
“I figured he might’ve come with you.”
“You’d think,” Callum said with a grin. “But delivering furniture doesn’t hold a candle to frosting sugar cookies.”
Callum turned to Mac, gesturing toward Connor with his head. “How do you like having this guy as a neighbor?”
“It’s taking some getting used to, but I’m up to the challenge,” she said with an impish smile, striding to the back of the truck. “Lots of good stuff here.”
Connor moved to stand beside her. “I thought Dad just had an old dresser for me. I was about to head over there now.”
“No need.” Callum swept a hand. “You say you need furniture, he and Mom clean house.”
“Need a hand unloading?” Mac asked.
“Thanks, but we’ve got it,” Callum replied before Connor could say otherwise.
“David asked Mac to play in the vintage baseball game,” Connor said easily. Then, catching her look, he added, “I mean, maybe. He just now asked.”
“Even being asked is an honor,” Callum said mildly. He turned to Mac. “Think you’ll do it?”
“Still deciding,” she said, then smiled. “If you’re sure you don’t need the help, I need to go. You two have fun.”
“She could’ve helped,” Connor muttered as she opened her front door. “Three’s better than two.”
Callum didn’t answer right away. He reached into the truck bed, adjusted the strap on the dresser, then glanced back at Connor. “You didn’t ask if she wanted to.”
“Wanted to what?”
“Be volunteered.” Callum’s tone was mild, not accusing.
Connor opened his mouth, then stopped.
Callum shrugged. “You’re excited. I get it. Just…don’t decide things for her.”
Then he turned back to the dresser, like the moment was over.
Connor watched Mac’s door until it shut, the latch clicking, soft but final.
Callum cleared his throat and bent to grip the dresser. “Help me with this end?”
Connor did, muscle memory taking over as they maneuvered the piece out of the truck and onto the driveway. Wood scraped lightly against concrete. The weight was familiar, grounding.
They carried it inside without speaking.
By the time they set it against the wall in the spare room, Callum was already moving on to the next item, humming under his breath like he hadn’t said anything worth sitting with.
Connor lingered for a moment longer.
Through the open window, he could hear birds in the trees, the distant buzz of a lawn mower, the low, ordinary sounds of a summer afternoon moving forward.
“You good?” Callum asked from the hallway.
“Yeah,” Connor said automatically.
Callum nodded once and headed out of the apartment.
Connor stayed where he was, hands braced on his hips as he stared outside. He replayed the moment. Mac’s look when he’d mentioned David’s invitation to the game. The way her smile had held, but tightened. The split second where something had shifted, then passed.
You didn’t ask if she wanted to.
It wasn’t that he disagreed with his brother. The thought to ask if she wanted to hadn’t even occurred to him.
He’d been excited. Proud. It had felt natural to name the thing out loud and move it forward, like you did with good news. Like momentum was something you shared.
He exhaled slowly.
Mac wasn’t someone who needed carrying. He knew that. She moved through the world with intention, discipline, control. She chose carefully. He admired that about her.
So why did it feel, suddenly, like he’d stepped half a pace ahead without realizing it?
Connor rubbed the back of his neck and glanced toward her home again, the distance between their doors unchanged. Same few steps. Same quiet space in between.
He hadn’t meant to pressure her.
But meaning and impact weren’t the same thing. He knew that. He’d learned it the hard way before.
The thought didn’t sit heavily, just enough to register.
A flag, not a failure.
Connor grabbed the edge of the dresser and nudged it straighter against the wall, then headed back outside to help Callum unload.
He told himself he’d ask her later how she felt.
And for once, he didn’t rush to decide what that answer should be.