12. Matty
Matty
Bennett hadn’t been kidding when he’d mentioned that Bernice had planned something bigger. I guessed I shouldn’t have been surprised. From the moment we’d arrived at Juniper Ridge, it had been obvious that neither she nor her wife did anything halfway.
What might have started as a casual plan to stream the All-Star game on my tablet had somehow turned into a full-blown watch party on the front lawn.
The exterior side of the barn had been transformed into a screen that rivaled any drive-in theater. And that was coming from a country boy who had spent nearly every Friday night between his sophomore and senior years at the Auto-Vue Drive-In.
The massive projector, that, apparently, Bernice kept tucked away for private events and weddings, beamed the game in crisp, glorious HD across the wall. Blankets, folding chairs, and even a few of the sofas from inside the inn were scattered across the lawn like colorful wildflowers.
And then, there was the food.
Being a pro-baseball player definitely had its perks.
I would be lying if I said I had never used my so-called “star power” to get a last-minute table at a restaurant or score some sold out concert tickets, though the latter had only been to win over my step-nieces, who were major Tyler, the Creator fans.
I was now, too.
Tonight, though, none of that pull had been necessary.
It was Parker and Lolly who had somehow managed to rally not one, not two, but three food trucks on extremely short notice.
Parker, with her effortless charm and local connections—including the ex who had allegedly stolen her air fryer—and Lolly, who chaired an online group of queer business owners and, seemingly, had half of the Grande Ronde Valley on speed dial.
One of the trucks was farm-to-table, Filipino fusion cuisine, slinging everything from adobo fried rice to pork belly tacos. Another offered gourmet grilled cheese sandwich skewers, paired with fancy tomato soup shooters. The last was a gourmet waffle truck, and . . .
Sweet, syrup-soaked sourdough heaven.
Their Bananatella waffle sandwich was the best thing I had put in my mouth in months. Well, second best thing.
Diaz’s dick took the cake . . . er, waffle.
I sat cross-legged on a blanket spread over the grass, a paper plate balanced on my knee, watching the game with a ridiculous smile on my face.
Mo was curled up beside me on her leash, her little body tucked against my thigh.
She’d been surprisingly well-behaved so far, mostly because Diaz kept sneaking her tiny pieces of grilled pork from his plate.
Every time he offered her a bite, her tail would thump wildly against the blanket and she’d look up at him with those big, adoring eyes like he was the best thing since sliced kibble.
I know the feeling, girl.
God, it was hot how good he was with her. I reckoned this was how some women felt when they saw men holding babies, an “ovary explosion,” as my sister, Erin, called it. Similarly, watching Diaz gently scratch behind her ears or slip her another treat made something warm settle deep in my belly.
A brovary explosion.
“You’re going to ruin her appetite for actual dog food,” I told him.
“Please.” He snorted. “I saw you sneak her half of your waffle sandwich.”
“That was one bite,” I protested.
“It was three.”
“She was . . . helping.”
“Helping with what?”
I scratched Mo behind the ears. “Quality control.”
He simply shook his head. God, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt this at ease. The American League was up by two in the top of the fifth, and our guys had been a huge part of that success.
Pink had looked sharp in his start, working a clean opening inning and giving up just a single hit. Tucker had already roped a line drive into right field, and Roman’s clutch triple in the fourth had driven in the two runs needed to put the American League ahead.
The rest of our Rose City crew had spread out across the lawn in little clusters. Bennett and Bella were cuddled together on a mountain of pillows, doing lord knew what under the spare quilt from my room.
Abuelita was caught up in an animated discussion with her new best friend, Lolly. The two of them had already exchanged email addresses, and from the looks of things, Lolly would be making a pilgrimage to Puerto Rico someday soon.
With or without Bernice.
Parker had stretched out on a folding chair, chunky pink sunglasses perched on her head as she flirted with one of the guys from the production crew . . . and Penelope.
I was starting to understand why Parker had so many exes.
The woman had one of those personalities that pulled people in without seeming to try. Confidence, charisma, and curves for days—a deadly combination, for sure. She might’ve been my type, if I didn’t already have my eyes on somebody else.
More specifically, on his thighs.
His very thick, very bare thighs.
Diaz was stretched out beside me, looking unfairly good in his “Get Roasted” sleeveless shirt and short shorts. “Hoochie daddy shorts,” as Pink called them, probably because they made you want to hoot at daddies.
Finally, a fashion trend I could get on board with.
His knee brushed mine every so often, a casual point of contact that sent little sparks up my leg. I glanced over at him again, unable to stop myself.
The sleeveless shirt showed off the faint trail of dark hair that disappeared beneath the waistband of those dangerously short shorts.
The thin fabric clung to him just enough to hint at the thick outline of his cock, relaxed but still prominent against his thigh.
A few tattoos peeked out from under the hem, including a piece of small, elegant script in Spanish along his inner thigh that I’d traced with my tongue before taking him into my mouth this morning.
He looked like sin wrapped in summer.
I was still staring when he caught me. Busted. Diaz’s eyes met mine with that cocky, knowing look that never failed to make my stomach flip. He didn’t say anything. Instead, he reached into his pocket, pulled out his phone, and tapped something quickly.
My phone buzzed a second later.
Diaz
You keep eye fucking me like that and we’re gonna have to sneak back to the cabin during the seventh-inning stretch.
Heat flooded my face. I typed back quickly, trying—and failing—to keep a straight face.
Me
Can you blame me? Have you seen your shorts?
Diaz
I have them in green, too.
I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from groaning.
Me
They are very . . . distracting.
Diaz
The shorts or my thighs?
Me
Both.
Diaz
Especially when picturing them draped over your shoulders?
My face burned hotter.
I glanced around quickly to make sure no one was paying attention, but there was no need.
The closest people to us were still a few yards away, close enough to hear laughter and conversation, but far enough that our little corner felt private.
Mila had claimed a patch of grass near one of the string-light poles and was hosting an Instagram Live for her fans.
A little farther off, Colt and Nora were sprawled out in a couple of Adirondacks, watching the game while sharing a blunt. Nora passed it to him with a lazy smile, saying something that made Colt cough-laugh through a cloud of smoke.
No one was paying us any mind. I typed back quickly, pulse hammering.
Me
Maybe.
Diaz
Good.
My phone buzzed again seconds later.
Diaz
Been thinking about your mouth on me since this morning.
Buzz.
Diaz
And your fingers toying with my asshole.
Buzz.
Diaz
And your freckles.
“My freckles?”
The question burst out of me before I could stop myself.
He answered with a grin that was downright feral.
“Yeah, your freckles,” he murmured, setting his phone down on the blanket between us. “There’s this little cluster on your left shoulder that drives me crazy. And another right above your groin—”
“Stop,” I grunted, but I didn’t mean it. “You’re going to get us in trouble.”
Diaz’s knee pressed against mine “You have no idea how fucking cute you look when you blush like that.”
He speared another bite of his taco with his fork and held it out toward me, his eyes locked on mine.
“Open.”
I hesitated for half a second, then leaned forward and took the bite right off his fork. The smoky pork and sweet pineapple hit me all at once, but it was the way his gaze stayed glued on my lips that made my pulse race.
“Damn, that’s really good,” I told him.
I wasn’t usually a big fan of pineapple on savory things—sorry, not sorry, Hawaiian pizza freaks—but that was one hell of a taco. I swallowed, suddenly very aware of how close we were.
“I don’t usually let people feed me off their fork. You must be rubbing off on me.
“I like rubbing off on you,” he said, his voice an octave lower than before.
I nearly choked. “That’s not what— You know what I mean.”
Diaz just laughed softly, eyes sparkling with mischief. He speared another bite and offered it to me, this time letting his fingers brush mine as I took it. The contact was brief, but it sent a rush of heat straight down my spine.
Diaz’s voice dropped even lower. “You gonna let me drag my tongue across those freckles later tonight, tesoro?”
Great. Now I’m hard.
I swallowed the bite, trying to keep my expression neutral for anyone who might glance our way.
“Is that, uh, what you want?”
His eyes narrowed. “I want . . .”
He paused, letting the words hang between us just long enough for my pulse to spike. Then his expression shifted into something more playful, the feral edge softening into that trademark Diaz smirk.
“. . . another one of those Berry Me in Chocolate waffles.”
I blinked, caught off guard by the sudden curveball. Relief and disappointment crashed into each other in my chest all at once. Mostly relief, though. We were in public, surrounded by our friends, his grandmother, and half the production crew.
Getting caught with a hard-on and a flushed face wasn’t exactly on tonight’s to-do list.
“I’ll get it,” I said quickly, already pushing up from the blanket. “I need to stretch my legs anyway.”
“Want me to come with you?”
“Hell no!”