Sweet Spot (Roseville Ramblers #3)

Chapter 1

DAMMIT, DALE.

MOLLY

"Iam a strong, independent woman!"

The bottom of my old, gross kitchen sink doesn't answer, but that's okay. The mantra's not to pump me up—I’ve never been so hyped as I am right now, wedged inside the musty cabinet with a pair of pliers in my hand. It's a declaration. A proclamation.

An affirmation!

The voice in my head is as cheery as my smile, but I shut it down so I can listen to the video playing on my phone.

Dale of Dale's Demos looks much more comfy than I am under the sink while he instructs me on how to replace the faucet hose.

The man at the hardware shop handed me a repair kit said the only other thing I need is a pair of pliers.

So I dug mine out of the brand new toolbox for their maiden voyage, their first adventure, their—

"Now go ahead and shut off the water by turning the hot and cold handles clockwise."

Right, right. It takes considerable strength to get them going, but ultimately, I succeed.

"There should be either a threaded nut or a quick-connect clip under the faucet body. Use your pliers to loosen it—"

Lips pursed, I clamp the nut with the pliers, muttering, "Lefty loosey," when I turn, already thinking about the next step, which is—

A cold whoosh of water hits my face with a splat, and I sit up so fast, I whack my head on the pipe.

"And don't forget to drain the line before disconnecting!"

"Thanks for the tip, Dale," I groan, palm to my forehead as I slink out from the cabinet, reaching for a tea towel bearing the phrase Much Ado About Muffins to wipe my face with. I'm soaked from my hair to my collarbone, my normally bobbed, curly blonde hair hanging just past my shoulders.

"I bet I look like a wet cat."

Scout, my calico, meows at me from the counter in agreement.

"Be nice or you're next," I warn uselessly as I wipe my glasses, but I only manage to smear the water around.

I find my way to the freezer and grab a bag of peas, pressing it to my forehead.

Dale is well into installation of the hose, his voice echoing in the cabinet where I left him, the traitor.

He only stops going on when my phone rings.

It's my parents, I just know it. It's like they have a sixth sense for something going wrong. That, or they're spying on me, which I wouldn't put past them.

"They're just worried about me," I tell Scout, who's judging me from her perch as I head for my phone. "Don't look at me like that."

When I answer, my parents' eager faces appear on the screen, immediately contracting in matching frowns.

"What happened?" Dad asks firmly, but not without care.

"I'm fine! I'm fine. Just conked my head when I was trying to fix something under the sink. Nothing a bag of frozen peas won't fix."

"You're soaked!" Mom informs me. "Was it a leak?"

"It was self-inflicted. Really, we should all be mad at Dale."

"Who?" They ask in unison, Mom curious, Dad suspicious.

I sigh, making my way to the bathroom. "Never mind. What are y'all up to?"

But Dad's shaking his head. "I still can't believe you bought that house without telling us."

"But then I wouldn't have it," I note.

"Exactly." His frown goes from chin to receding hairline.

"I love this house," I remind them. The second I saw it, I knew it was mine. That I'd be happy here. That this was the place where I'd start my life on my own.

"That house is a money pit," he argues. "It's not safe. You never should have left home."

Again, I sigh, trading out my tea towel for the one I use for my curls.

When my phone is propped up, I scrunch my hair with it as we talk.

Well, they talk. I listen to the rant I've heard a thousand times since I finished my Masters at University of Kentucky and told them I was moving to Tennessee.

I didn't even tell them I'd applied for the elementary librarian job in Roseville until after I got the job.

See, they're finally out of things to hold over me.

College was the last shackle—they'd only pay for school if I kept living at home.

So I stayed home. Don't tell them, but it was a little bit of a relief—after being homeschooled, college was scary, at least at first. I wasn't ready to be on my own.

But once I was, they didn't give me a choice.

They're lucky I don't have a rebellious bone in my body.

Or maybe it's me who's lucky. If I hadn't stayed home, I'd be up to my ears in student loan debt.

But in the end, it wasn't that much of a hardship.

A free place to stay with home cooked meals and a laundry service?

Sign me up. And it's not as if I had anywhere to go that they wouldn't approve of.

My friends and I usually stayed in for craft nights or game nights or whatever nights we could plan that involved pajamas and popcorn.

Anyway, I love my parents, sure. I mean, other than their proclivity for obsessing about my whereabouts. Sometimes they act like I'll just poof, disappear.

By the time my hair is properly scrunched and I've cleaned off my glasses, they've wound down a little. Dad's frown is now contained between his eyes and mouth.

"I'm coming down and fix some things around there," he decides.

It's cute my accountant father thinks he could fix anything that doesn't involve a calculator.

"I'm fine, Daddy. Other than this," I add, smushing the peas back to my forehead, which is red and starting to welt.

"Don't worry, okay?" Might as well say stop breathing or quit blinking.

"I have my trusty toolbox, a hardware store, and the internet. Nothing is unfigureoutable, right?"

He uses the phrase on me all the time, and with that, I get through to him. Or at least chip away at him. I know because his frown eases into a scowl.

"Don't you touch anything electrical."

"I won't," I promise with a smile.

"So, who's Dale?" Mom asks.

I can't help but laugh. "Mom, he's some YouTube fixit guy. I don't actually know him."

"Good," Dad says.

"You don't want me to meet a guy?" My visible brow arches. "You're never gonna get grandbabies if I don't meet somebody."

His nose tilts. "I don't trust any old guy."

Mom gathers her cardigan and wraps it closed, giving him a look.

I say what she's thinking. "You don't trust anybody."

He gives me that look he wears when I sass him. I laugh.

"Well, I love y'all. I've gotta run--our teacher's softball team tryouts are in a bit."

Boom, there go the frowns again. They forgot.

"Softball?" Dad starts. "You can't even throw a ball honey. No offense."

I shake my head at him. "Whose fault is that?"

"And swinging that bat?" Mom joins in. "What if a ball hits you?"

"Then I'll get a bruise and carry on. A million people play every day and live. I'll be fine." When they don't interject, I take the opportunity to exit. "Alright, I'm gonna let y'all go. But I love you! I'll call you when I get home, okay?"

They grumble their assent. "Love you, honey," Mom says. "Be good!"

As if I've ever had the chance to be anything else.

I set the phone down and get ready to go, changing my shirt and pulling on white canvas sneakers.

I own approximately zero appropriate workout clothes, which I suppose I should rectify if I'm going to be playing softball.

They're not wrong--I don't think I can throw a ball with any accuracy or distance.

But my first and best friend here in Roseville, Cass, suggested I join the teacher's league to meet people.

And apparently, this is the first time in several years they've even had enough interested teachers.

I'm the ninth, which they tell me is how many players are on a softball team.

I warned Cass that I have no idea what I'm doing, but she said it didn't matter, that it was just for fun.

My nerves ease when I remember that. Because who doesn't love fun? And I get to make new friends and learn something new. Basically heaven.

On the way out, I give the cavern under my sink a look that I hope fixes its attitude, kissing the top of Scout's head before leaving through the front door.

It's the end of February, and the weather hasn't quite started to turn, but I feel it coming.

The trees are still bare up here in the Smokeys, and I find myself squinting for green buds on the branches.

Once they sprout, everything will be lush and green in a few short weeks, the hills covered in trees so densely that from a distance, they look like mounds of broccoli. But it's too chilly still.

As I get in my car, I button up my cardigan as if it will somehow boost its ability to keep me warm.

I couldn't find the one sweatshirt I own, and all my jackets are too heavy or just plain inappropriate.

Not sure how flexible I'd be in a peacoat, but I'm guessing not very.

My brows inch together when I wonder if I'll get in trouble for wearing the wrong clothes.

I haven't seen a lot of baseball players on the field in jeans, and strangely I've seen a lot of baseball lately.

Cass's husband Wilder plays for the recreational team, which is so competitive, the town treats them like they're minor league.

Since meeting her on the first day of school, she's been kind enough to bring me into her friend group, inviting me everywhere they go.

I even go to the bar with them, though the wildest thing I ever order is a Shirley Temple.

More than once, I've come real close to ordering a drink, but I don't know what Drunk Molly looks like and don't want to embarrass myself in front of my only friends in town.

I haven't even told Cass I'm a booze virgin, and though she knows I never drink, she respects that knowledge enough that she's never asked why.

I almost wish she would. I have no idea how to bring it up.

I wave at her when I pull into the parking lot next to the high school baseball field.

She looks so cute, her red hair pulled through the hole in her Rambler's baseball hat, her leggings and pullover fitted and sporty.

Her husband and his daughter Cricket are with her and wave too.

My heart twists at the sight of Cricket.

She's one of my favorite elementary kids, and I've met them all as the librarian.

But Cricket has an appetite for books that rivals even mine.

Past that, she's been through so much that she carved out a part of my heart and carries it around with her.

I climb out of my car, admiring Cass's outfit again, then look down at mine. Wrong shoes, wrong pants, wrong top, and this slouchy cardigan might even be a safety hazard. I make a note to go to the sporting goods store on Main Street, my dread deepening when I hear the coach's voice.

Greyson Brooks, or Grey, or Coach, as most people call him.

He's as gloomy as his name suggests, the scowling, square-jawed grump with pale, narrow eyes and a growl like rolling thunder.

He growls a lot. I always thought it was dumb when it happens in the hundreds of romance novels I've read, but then I heard that low rumble in his throat when he warned off a guy hit on me at the bar.

Something hot and bubbly happened to my major organs.

Oh, the things I would do to hear that growl.

Thing is, he's older than me. Like, a lot older, his temples shot with gray and crinkles at the corners of his eyes.

His beard is peppered with the occasional silver hair that I naively thought was blond the first time I met him.

Seriously, he might be old enough to be my dad.

But nothing about him gives me dad vibes.

When Grey is around, the air crackles like lighting's about to strike.

I'm sure I'm not alone in that. Surely he carries that energy around with him, affecting everyone in a near radius the same as me.

I'm not special. But I've never met anyone who does that to me before.

A small, secretly feral part of me wishes he'd torn the arms off the guy who hit on me and beat him to death with them.

Anyway, he's just looking out for me, that's all.

He probably thinks I'm just a naive kid, and showing up to practice in all the wrong clothes isn't going to convince him how grown up and together I am.

I tug at the hem of my cardigan and pass through the gate, turning for the dugout when I see him.

Every fine hair on my body reaches for the sky when his pale eyes meet mine, as silvery-gray as his namesake.

He is a looming thunderhead, vast and heavy and ominous, a beast of a man with shoulders broad enough to carry the weight of the storm he brings.

His arms ripple with muscles, visible even beneath his pullover, which is so tight it borders obscene.

The taper of his torso is met with an ass made of solid stone and thighs to match.

But his eyes call me back, still locked on me from beneath the shadow of his brows, the crease between them permanent, I'm sure.

Absently, I wonder if they're like that when he sleeps, or if his features smooth and soften.

What does he look like when he smiles? When he laughs?

Assuming he laughs. I've never seen it, but I bet it's something.

Mostly, he looks like a wolf on the hunt.

No, not an ounce of dad energy. Daddy energy.

I'm in the middle of wondering what it would feel like to be hunted by a Grey-shaped wolf when I trip over an athletic bag, and the world tips on its axis in every single way.