Sway (Landry Family #1)(9)

“Hey,” he says, shaking his arm and jostling me back to reality. “Are you okay? Did I say something?”

I smile at the concern in his eyes as I shake off the lingering sting of my ex-husband’s contempt. “No. It’s fine. Just . . . you know how it goes. Things pop up in your brain at the least convenient times.”

“That happens to me all the time. Nearly every time I have to give a speech, I stand at the podium and open my mouth and think something completely absurd and have to recover in a couple of seconds.”

He winks and I’m left wondering if that’s true, or if he’s saying it to make me feel better. Either way, I can’t help but realize he’s taken the pressure off me and made the entire situation feel less heavy.

“That’s the reason you’re a successful politician,” I grin.

“So there’s only one reason?”

Giggling, I say, “I only know you well enough for there to be one. Speak as you find.”

“Speak as you find,” he nods, rolling the premise around his brain. “I like that. A lot.”

“My mother always says it. It was so annoying growing up. Every time she’d hear us gossip or speculate about people, she’d repeat that,” I remember. “But now, I tell Huxley that all the time.”

“Who’s Huxley?”

We take a turn in the path and it grows darker. The spaces on the sides of the walkway grow wider, deeper, and fields are barely visible expanding to either side. I bet it’s beautiful in the day, filled with flowers and birds.

“Huxley is my son.” I pause, giving him time to absorb that little nugget. He cocks his head, running his bottom lip between his teeth, but says nothing. So I continue. “He’s ten. He’s insanely smart and a lover of all things baseball.”

His lip pops free and he takes a deep breath. “So, is his father around? Your . . . ex-husband?”

“Ex-husband. Yes,” I confirm. “No, he isn’t around. It’s a very long, dramatic story.”

We stop walking and he turns to face me. He eyes me curiously, like he’s dying to ask for details, but doesn’t know if he should. I save him the decision.

“I don’t really want to talk about that, if you don’t mind.”

“Absolutely. I’m sorry for bringing it up.”

I sigh as casually as I can, hoping it downplays the situation. “It’s just a topic that makes me pissy.”

“Well, we don’t want you pissy.” He chuckles and turns to the side and points to the sky. “Right there. Do you see that?”

I gaze into the expanse of the sky, but have no idea what, exactly, he’s referring to. “Um, one of the four trillion stars?”

“No,” he laughs. “That entire little constellation. Do you see it? It looks like a baseball and a bat.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, trying not to laugh. “I don’t see it. And I’m kind of worried about your sanity if you do.”

His chest rises and falls with his laugh. “Well, Miss Baker, I’m worried about your creativity if you don’t.”

“It’s just baseball,” I say, twisting my lips together. “It’s really boring. It’s just . . .”

“The American way?”

“Boring?” I counter.

He shakes his head with a somber look on his face. “I’m not sure I can like you.”

“Because I don’t like baseball?” I laugh. “If that’s the case, our friendship is hopeless. I can’t like something that includes hours and hours of watching grown men hit a little ball with a stick.”

“It’s the all-American pastime! My brother is the center fielder of the Tennessee Arrows, for cryin’ out loud. You have to like baseball, Alison. You must!”

The smile on my face is dopey, but I can’t wipe it off. I know he doesn’t really mean the insinuation that maybe there’s some reason for me to like it because of his family, but still. Just hearing it come out of his mouth plays right to my inner romantic.

I need to change the subject to something neutral. He could suck me in with his charm and that’s not going to do me any good. “So, you know some things about me. Tell me something about you.”

He snickers and looks at the ground. “Why don’t you tell me what you’ve read and I’ll tell you if it’s fact or fiction. It’s probably easier that way.”

“Sounds like a fun game,” I tease. “Oh, the bits of truth I could glean.”

“You aren’t writing an article or anything, are you?”

“I am in school for journalism . . .”

His brows shoot to the sky.

“Barrett, I’m kidding. I mean, I am in school for that, but I would never do that.” He relaxes, but still looks a touch apprehensive.

“No, I believe you. You’re way too real to be a reporter. You speak off the cuff with no lead-ins. Trust me, I can pick a reporter out of a line-up.”

“Well, trust me when I say I hate them as much as you do.”

He quirks a brow. “Then why would you want to work in that industry? It seems almost as bad as politics.”

I laugh, but know exactly what he means. “It probably is.” Looking up at his face, the way his gaze peers into mine, so genuinely interested—maybe even concerned—I feel my guard dropping. “I want to make a difference,” I shrug. “I want to be the person that gets it right, that reports the truth and tells the things that are important. Is that stupid?”