Chapter 8 #2
I sigh over the obvious attraction and deep display of affection, causing my gaze to return to Stone.
Dammit. I don’t want to look, but his focus remains on the approaching couple. His broad shoulders tense. His jaw tight. Even his mustache looks stern as he squints in their direction.
His body language suggests that beneath the surface, something is bothering him, and I remind myself I don’t care.
He isn’t my business.
I shouldn’t feel even a twinge of sympathy for him.
Still, he’s instantly black when he’s typically soothing blue, and I question only briefly what could cause such a sturdy man to look momentarily battered.
Again. Not my concern.
Until his gaze suddenly locks on me.
There are so many shades to Stone.
The hesitant hue of stalling in a hallway, lingering to look too long at me.
The playful palette, momentarily pretending to be my blind date, and then shifting into a comfortable color of communication.
Talking and listening. Teasing and sharing.
When we danced, he was the soothing sound associated with blue water.
Eventually, he was a cobalt flame of desire, the flick of a flare when he kissed me.
And all those sapphire shades were tainted, dull and dim, when I learned he had good reason not to invite himself into my room.
He should have never kissed me in the first place. And I’m the stupid one who let him.
Forcing my gaze to unlock from his, I turn my attention back toward Clay, waiting on my new coach to give instructions.
Being involved in a game is like being placed in another community. Players find a sense of belonging and common initiative. Go. Fight. Win.
Being among this lot is an entirely different experience from the average competitiveness of an athletic game.
The teams are as evenly divided as they can be. Partners get separated, leading to flirty innuendos about going down and future promises. Children get included, right down to a pair of five-year-olds. The six Sylver brothers divide down the middle.
Stone, Ford, Sebastian. Clay, Judd, Knox.
As the game begins, I’m surprised by the overall athleticism of the boys, now men, and their playful banter. Jabs and jokes about age and ability are tossed around the diamond.
The night I met Stone, he said he intended to make his brother’s fight, and I realize now he meant Judd, who’d been boxing in bars for a number of years.
My gaze slings between the two, wondering how I hadn’t made the connection.
Then again, Judd is a little taller than his older two brothers.
He’s lean like Clay but muscular and strong like Stone.
His eyes are more cobalt blue than the softer tone of the older two, and honestly, I wasn’t thinking about my old friend when I gazed upon the kind glow of his oldest brother.
Fool me once, shame on me. I will not be fooled again, and I pull my gaze from Stone and his position as pitcher on the mound.
As a weak link on my team—even the kids are better than me—I’m at the bottom of the batting order, so when it’s finally my turn up at bat, I try to concentrate more on the ball than the silver fox pitcher.
Easier said than done as he’s looking at me from beneath the brim of a low-slung ball cap, sizing me up and down, making me feel like he’s mentally undressing me. Pop would go the fastenings on my overalls. Down comes the denim. Off comes the tank top.
Yeah, not happening.
“You gonna pitch that ball or just stare at me?” I taunt, unable to stop myself.
For some strange reason, it isn’t only that I want to attempt to hit that ball, envision it being smacked out of this makeshift ballfield, but I want to prove I’m a player too.
I belong on someone’s team.
Stone slowly lowers the ball to his waist, eyeing me like he’s surprised I spoke.
“Cat got your tongue, old man.” The teasing jab comes from one of his siblings.
“More like the girl has his attention.”
Flustered by the comment, I turn toward Sebastian who is crouched behind me as the catcher for his team.
Does he know Stone and I met? Has Stone mentioned me? How could he after what he did?
While I’m distracted, Stone lets the ball sail. It narrowly misses me. Thanks to the quick reflexes of Sebastian, he catches the ball.
“What the hell?” I mutter, turning back toward the pitching mound and taking up a batting stance again.
I will not strike out. I will not strike out.
The mantra seems to shift in my head.
You will not regret me. Say you will remember me.
Sheer determination has me swinging, connecting the bat with the next pitch, and sending the ball between second and third base. As Stone’s team has one of his young nieces covering the shortstop position, he runs toward the spot to help her retrieve the ball.
Because I’m so excited I made a hit, I race toward first and round for second like I’m a newly drafted professional when my exercise regimen consists of occasional yoga and a rare walk.
Focused on second base, I don’t pay attention to Stone making his way to the same spot.
I should slide, but that isn’t going to happen in my cute overalls, not to mention I don’t know how.
Plus, flinging myself into the dirt and gliding over it seems like it would hurt. Badly.
Stone tags the base with his large foot, which is a certain out, the last one of the inning for my team. Only my momentum keeps me going and I barrel straight toward Stone who catches me around the waist, spins me around, and hikes me over his shoulder.
“Out,” he cries, loud and proud, further confirming what I already knew.
However, he doesn’t set me down. Slung over his shoulder like a sack of seed, he carries me slowly toward home plate.
“What is your problem?” I snap, gripping the back of his warm shirt.
“What is yours?” His tone is equally sharp.
“Definitely not you,” I grunt as his shoulder wedges into my belly. All the blood is rushing to my head, and I try to lift it. He’s wearing a dark green Sylver Seed & Soil tee that’s sweaty down his back, and yet he still smells good. Like mountain spring and fresh air and all man.
Fuck!
“What’s that even mean?” he hums, taking his time to return me to my team.
“Don’t worry about it.” He’d said the same thing the night we met. He wanted to be a gentleman. He wanted to please his deceased mama.
How pleased would she be to know he was a liar? A cheat? He should be wearing a giant scarlet A on his chest.
Thankfully, we’ve reached my bench, which is made of blankets spread on the ground and collapsible camp chairs.
He sets me on my feet, but I stumble from the sudden rush of blood to my head.
Wobbling, I reach out to steady myself and grip Stone’s strong arms where the cuff of his sleeves meets his biceps and the heat of his skin warms my palms like they did the night he walked me to our hotel.
When he held my hand, cupped my face, and kissed me like I’ve never been kissed before.
Pulling my hands back, like touching him scorches me, I try not to glance at the ink he has down his forearm.
We could have had so much fun with him, my body teases.
No, we could not have, my heart screams.
I pat his chest placatingly, immediately noting how firm he is beneath that second-skin tee he’s wearing.
“Well.” I chuff. “Thanks for the ride.”
Unaware he’d been holding my hips, I miss his hands when he releases me.
“Anytime, Delilah.”
“Tallulah,” someone corrects him.
“Don’t,” I snap. The nickname hits a mark. Like a private joke shared by a couple. One that feels strangely intimate.
The kind of inside joke that had me searching for my Samson the following morning, hoping he might be lingering in the hotel lobby for the free breakfast, or at least, a coffee.
And he sure was. With her.