Chapter 2
RACHEL
The late-spring sun pelted them with rays while they entered the baseball field. Thanks to Molly’s extra-fancy, extra-fast driving, they’d arrived with a few minutes to spare.
“I’m telling you.” Molly led the way along the walkway toward the bench where they would wait for the Little League game to start. “Men who shop for groceries are excellent stepdad material.”
Wait. What?
That was not the criteria single moms should use as the litmus test for future husbands.
Dear future husband, please be funny, be excellent in bed, take care of me and my kids, and above all else, pick out the best watermelons.
No.
As Sesame Street once pointed out, one of these things is not like the others.
Besides, guys rarely enjoyed grocery shopping.
At least, in Rachel’s experience, that was a no-go.
Not that she had an abundance of experience with grocery shopping members of the male species, but she had enough secondhand experience people watching to know that the handsome ones were in and out and on their way.
In and out of the grocery store, that is. Other things, too, but that wasn’t a place she wanted to allow her mind to wander, because her body hadn’t wandered there in years, and she was pretty sure it was resenting her and would turn Team Molly on this one.
“The produce section is ripe for all sorts of subliminal messages, all ready for you to exploit.” Molly did the bouncy walk that was her signature. Molly walked like she lived—happy and always moving.
Rachel’s walk was more just-get-me-where-I’m-going efficiency.
“Whatever you say,” Rachel said. This reply was all-purpose and evergreen.
“You show you are confident in the way you push the cart,” Molly continued. “Show that you understand how to select and handle an eggplant. Things like that.”
This whole thing was a no for Rachel, thank-you-very-much. But Molly could do whatever Molly wanted—which was good because Molly did that anyway.
“Whatever you say,” Rachel said, again.
“Well, I say that you and I are going produce shopping later.” Molly bumped Rachel’s arm with hers.
Rachel slid her gaze to Molly. Ha. No. “I’m not doing that with you. Not when you’re in dating-Molly mode.”
“You haven’t been listening at all, have you?” Molly tsked. “I’m in dating-Rachel mode.”
Rachel stiffened. She appreciated she had someone to hang out with at the games.
Especially when that someone was her bestest best friend.
Even if that friend was filled to the brim with ridiculous ideas about the dating Rachel should do, and the calisthenics her downtown lady bits should take part in with members of the opposite sex.
“A guy in the produce aisle is not in the headspace for becoming an insta-dad,” Rachel insisted, looking to where her boys warmed up on the field. “He’s there to select lemons or broccoli or whatever, not pick out a future life partner.”
“Orrrr…” Molly stopped mid-stride, turned her body toward Rachel.
“Maybe he’s there to squeeze a few oranges while watching potential mates stroke zucchinis to test for firmness.
Thus discovering the future mother of his children.
” Molly waggled her eyebrows, as though all of this made sense and wasn’t whack-a-doodle.
For the record, it made little sense and was, in fact, totally whack-a-doodle.
“I refuse to meet a man by subliminally encouraging him to ask me on a date because I stroked a banana or a zucchini or any other girthy produce.” Rachel rummaged through her handbag to search for her sunglasses as they walked. Damn, she knew she’d dropped them in there before she left the house.
“It’s not happening. If I need company, I’ll just adopt a puppy or something,” she continued.
Coming up empty from the inside pocket, she turned her attention to the oversize beach bag, the one that had never seen a beach but was her own personal “bug out” bag where she kept all the things she might need for herself or her kids.
“If you don’t want to be so obvious, just squeeze a couple of cantaloupes.” Molly shrugged, clearly oblivious to Rachel’s search for eye protection and her extreme disinterest in the suggestion.
“Are you equating cantaloupe to breasts, because men like breasts?” Rachel asked, even though she knew she shouldn’t have continued engaging in Molly’s dating cray-cray.
“See! You’re catching on.” Molly nodded enthusiastically.
Rachel shook her head. She would not be doing that.
“If you use two lemons, it’s a totally different subliminal message.”
“For guys who like small breasts?” Stop. Asking.
Questions. Rachel.
“No, silly. Guys love having their”—Molly tipped her sunglasses to the edge of her nose and looked pointedly at Rachel’s crotch area—“ahem squeezed.”
Molly further illustrated this point by making two fists and squeezing.
Rachel didn’t have the equipment Molly referred to, but she still felt the urge to cross her legs.
See, when life tossed lemons at Rachel, she found a recipe on Pinterest and squeezed a pitcher of lemon martinis for an impromptu girls’ night soiree.
Sometimes, if she was feeling bold with her lemons, she’d mix up a pitcher of whiskey smash instead.
She didn’t squeeze them to make a sexual point.
Rachel twisted her lips, paused her stride, and shook her head. “We’re done. Change of subject.”
Then she stuck her head back into the depths of the beach bag filled with snacks and extra gear and just-in-case bandages and water bottles. Where the heck had she put those damn glasses? Gah.
“Good call, Rach. Because that’s the worst advice I’ve ever heard.” A throaty male voice with a hefty dose of southern drawl came from behind them.
Rachel paused. She knew that voice like the inside of her handbag.
Don’t get her wrong. The southern accent was nice. Sometimes if he said the right thing with extra southern mixed in, it made her tingly and her tummy twist in ways that weren’t bad. Not bad at all. Actually, the twisting was sorta good. Which was bad.
Blurgh.
Of course, it would be Travis.
“Don’t go around squeezing a guy’s nuts. We don’t like that.” Travis knew where his sunglasses were because he pulled them from the bridge of his nose, folded them carefully, and tucked one end into the front of his shirt.
If he kept up that look, pretty soon he’d be wearing loafers with no socks. He could probably pull off the look, though, and still knock all the ladies out with his brand of handsome.
Travis was a hottie. The worst kind of hottie—the kind who knew it, embraced it, and owned it. He was also untethered, immature, and irresponsible.
Short blond hair with a bit of an unintentional Superman-esque wave, muscles because he embraced his hotness, worked out, and apparently didn’t eat Puffle Yums, and the kind of symmetrical features that probably turned on even facial recognition software.
Yes, the symmetry of his face was that good.
Rachel did not like Travis’s brand of hottie knowledge, preferring the kind who had no clue they were attractive. They were so much nicer to her.
Rachel ignored him, shoving her face back into her bag on her sunglasses search.
She didn’t have to look up to see him shaking his head; she knew intuitively that’s what he was doing. Probably closing his eyes in a half-lidded what-the-fuck, this-is-ridiculous eye roll he did so well.
“Some of you do.” Molly laughed, lighthearted, the subtle hint of flirt in her tone that Travis ate up. “Like the squeeze thing, I mean.”
Travis laughed. “Rach, you know how you say I never take anything seriously?”
Yes, she did.
“I take my stance here extremely seriously.” He gave her a smolder and a wink that made her nearly—only nearly—forget who he was, where they were, and why he was a bad idea.
Between him and Molly, it was like a big ol’ flirt bomb had decimated the Little League field.
Molly was dancing the dance to hand deliver Travis right to Rachel.
Which was…blah.
Of course, Molly wouldn’t try for Travis herself. Rachel had suggested it, but Molly said that would be, and Rachel was quoting here, “weird.”
Rachel mentally batted Travis away like the unreliable annoyance he had proven over and over to be.
“Tell Rachel and me more about what you’d prefer squeezed,” Molly said, right on cue.
Rachel extracted her head from her bag, wishing that Molly had not just asked that. But, oh boy, she had. “Or you could, you know, not do that.”
Travis grinned. “I’d love to tell you what to squeeze.”
“I just said not to.”
“But did you mean it?”
“Yes.”
“You sure?”
“Travis.” She turned to face him, squaring her shoulders.
“Yes, Rachel?” he drawled.
“Knock it off.” She used her mom tone. The one that, generally, got her what she wanted.
Molly smiled. “You two, this is great.”
Rachel scowled. She gave up on her sunglasses search and went back to marching toward the benches.
Molly let well-timed laughter tumble over the thick air among them. “What would you suggest, then?”
“I suggest we go be adults and watch the baseball warm-ups,” Rachel said. Fine, it was more of a huff.
Travis stood, thoughtful. Too thoughtful. Travis didn’t do thoughtful. This was new.
“There are so many other things you can do down there—don’t go squeezing around. Do you want me to start a list of things men enjoy?” he said to Rachel with another hefty dose of charisma.
Rachel’s stomach did the flippy good, but also bad, thing. “I know what men enjoy.”
She didn’t, not really. But she could probably make a few good guesses.
“I’d love to hear what you think Travis would enjoy,” Molly said.
“I can start at the waistband and work my way down?” Travis continued.
Gah. This, right there, was why Travis drove her up the wall.
“I think I’ll stick with the squeezing thing Molly suggested.” Truly, Rachel just wanted him to stop talking about it. “Hard. With fingernails.”
Did she imagine it or did he cross his legs just a touch?