I shrug, affecting a relaxed pose. “You’re free to date.”
“And so are you. But I’m not seeing anyone. I’m too busy with the expansion plans right now. Dating is not on my agenda.”
“Same here. My business, that is. Too much going on.”
“So we’re both in the same position. And we’ll stick to the plan.”
And while I’m terribly tempted to make a joke about positions, or things sticking, I resist. “I understand. I know what’s at stake.”
“I know you do, Jason, but sometimes you make it hard. The way you flirt. The way you touch me.” Her tone is earnest, full of need. It stops me in my tracks. Normally we fire zingers at each other, we toss bouquets of flirtation. But there’s something almost sad in the way she’s speaking right now, like she desperately needs me to change.
“Do I touch you too much?”
“Too much for my own good.”
Dear God. Too much for my own good. “I get that. I can stop.”
“You need to know I don’t want you to, but we probably should. Because I like this.” She points from me to her. “I like this, but not as much as I dislike the idea of losing you or hurting Malone. I like how we are. I like seeing my brother for breakfast, like I did earlier today, and for baseball games, and when he hangs out to chat after he sings at Gin Joint. I’m at a point where things are clicking in my life. The bar, the business—everything. I don’t want to feel the way I’ve felt in the past, where I’m losing the people I love.”
I have to keep things on the level for her, and for me. I’m a serial monogamist for a reason—I don’t want to be Claire’d again. Commitment and I have kept each other at arm’s length ever since I came to the States in my early twenties to take care of my dying nan. When I left England, Claire took me to the airport, teary-eyed and looking like a Nicholas Sparks heroine, saying she’d wait as long as it took for me to return. And a month later, when I was still away, she took up with the barber down the street.
“I understand,” I say. “I don’t want you to lose what you care about. Not work or your closeness with Malone. And you know my deal. I’m not keen on anything more. So it’s best this way.”
“I do. I understand that,” she says, since she’s up to speed on the basics of what went wrong with Claire.
“All that said, there’s something vital I want you to know.”
“Sure. Tell me.”
My lips curve up. “Are you aware I’ve been attracted to you since I met you?”
“Why are you telling me this now?”
Because I’m on an honesty kick, and I take my time, letting a wicked grin spread across my face. “So you know it’s something of a miracle that we’ve only ever fallen into bed once.”
There’s that sharp stare I know so well. The oh no, you didn’t look. “You’re aware that falling into bed is exactly what we can’t do?”
“Indeed. And my point is, I’ve been exercising restraint with you for a long time. I can keep it up.”
She settles in on the bench, staring at the sun, putting on her shades, taking her time. At last she responds, a smile tugging at her lips. “I suppose you can. You do have excellent stamina.”
12
That evening, I round the bases, high-fiving Nick and Malone as I cross home plate.
Nick gives me a fist bump. “Hallelujah! Miracles do happen.”
“And you two tossers are the beneficiaries, seeing as I knocked you in.”
Nick takes a bow. “I humbly accept your RBI, especially since it’s so rare.”
I stifle a laugh. “Dickhead.”
“That’s five years on the team, and it’s your first dinger, right?” he asks.
“It’s not even my first home run this season.”
Malone claps me on the back but locks eyes with Nick. “Now, now, don’t sell this guy short. He manages to whack a whole pair over the fences each season.” He turns to me, intensely serious. “We are so proud of you for that kind of consistency.”
I point to the field. “You do realize we just took the lead because of that home run?”
“That’s it. I’m getting you a plaque. Best One-Homer-a-Season Hitter,” Nick says.
“Don’t make him feel bad that he’s not at our level,” Malone cuts in as we head to the dugout. “We need to keep his spirits up. After all, if we didn’t have Jason on the team . . . well, we wouldn’t have enough players, and we’d have to forfeit.”
I groan, taking off my helmet and dragging a hand through my hair. “I just hit a home run. Or a whopper or a dinger or whatever it is you call it here.”
Nick rattles off the names. “Tater. Goner. Blast. Bomb. Jack. Like, you jacked one over the fence.”
“You’re so classy here with your jack talk.” I make the requisite offensive hand gesture.
“You could also call it a long ball,” Nick retorts, gesturing to his crotch. “That better?”
“Loads.” I glance at the bleachers, spotting Harper and their two kids grabbing front-row seats. “Your wife and kids just returned, so try to be a civilized bastard now. I know that’ll be hard for you.”
“Sooo hard. But I can do it.”
When the game ends, Nick takes off with his wife and the kids, scooping up his little redheaded daughter for a piggyback ride.
