Swing (Landry Family #2)(63)

Instead of heading into the kitchen, I turn left and onto the porch for a quick breath of fresh air. No one is out here, just a line of expensive cars along the teardrop driveway in front of the house.

Sitting on the swing, I take a few quick, deep breaths. The air is so peaceful here, filling my lungs with tranquility. I’ve never felt something like this before. It’s not like this in Memphis or Boston or where I grew up in San Diego. I like it.

The door opens and makes me jump. Graham steps out and spots me and gives me a reassuring smile. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You didn’t,” I say.

“Everything all right?”

“Of course,” I smile. “I’m just . . . this is all a little new to me.”

His brows furrow. “What’s new to you?”

“This whole family thing you all have going on. I’m an only child. No cousins or grandparents, really. It’s a little . . .”

“Overwhelming?”

“Kind of.”

“It can be, even for me.” He walks across the porch and leans against the railing. He’s not quite as tall as Lincoln and not as muscular, but I’m sure he’s his own brand of spectacular without a shirt on. He gazes across the yard like Lincoln does when he’s thinking.

“Maybe I should be the one to ask if you’re all right,” I note.

He glances at me over his shoulder and smirks. “I’m fine. Unless you need a job. Then I’ll be great.”

“This sounds like a touchy subject.”

He blows out a hard breath. “I need to hire someone right away. My secretary just walked out.” He sighs again.

“That was nice of her,” I wince. “Did she retire? Get sick?”

“Worse,” he says, spinning to face me. “She fell in love.”

“Ah,” I laugh. “Good for her!”

“Maybe, but it’s terrible for me,” he chuckles, shaking his head. “I don’t see the need to traverse the country because you’re finally getting laid. People fall in love and do the stupidest shit.”

My breath hitches in my throat as I try to figure out if he means any of that towards me in any way.

“I don’t mean you,” he snorts, a grin still on his face.

“How did you know I was wondering that?”

“You mean besides the way you just looked like you saw a ghost?” he laughs.

“Was it that obvious?”

“More or less.” He turns around and faces me, leaning against the railing. His eyes burn into mine and I squirm on the wooden swing. The toes of my boots scoot against the ground, halting the leisure back-and-forth. He doesn’t make me uncomfortable, just on the spot. Graham Landry can switch from casual conversation to interrogation faster than anyone I’ve ever seen. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure,” I say, not at all feeling that way.

“Why do you like my brother?”

His question renders me speechless. My lips part, then close, as I try to figure out what he’s getting at. “I’m sorry, Graham. I don’t understand.”

He almost smiles. Almost. “You know what? Never mind.”

“No,” I say, shaking my head. “You asked. Now clarify.”

“Look, I’m going to say this and it might come out wrong. But hear me out.”

“Careful,” I warn, a touch of a grin on my lips.

He looks away as he tries to stop his laugh. “Fair enough.” He clears his throat and looks at me again. “I’m a critical guy. I’ll also go out on a limb and say I’m the most serious of the bunch. So when one of the rest of them bring home a new girl or guy, it’s usually a face I don’t get to know too well because they won’t be back.”

“So your siblings are flakes?”

“Yes,” he admits good-naturedly. “But you, Danielle, are different. I can see you sticking around a while.”

My heart leaps in my chest, but I stay composed. You have to with this guy. “Why do you say that?”

“You fit in here,” he shrugs. “You make Lincoln laugh. Relax. Hell, you make him think about things other than pitch counts and that’s no easy task,” he kids. “You bring out something different in Linc that I haven’t seen in years. I have a feeling you’re pretty special to him.”

“I hope so. He’s pretty special to me.”

“Lincoln has a meeting coming up about his contract,” Graham says.

And then it hits me. I stand because sitting makes me feel at some sort of a disadvantage to him. I’m not angry at the insinuation—I get it. I was raised with some of the same issues. But I am going to make myself clear. Crystal clear.

“I get what you’re saying,” I say, making direct eye contact. “And, for the record, if he gets dropped and never plays baseball again, I would probably be happier.”

Graham’s eyes widen just a bit, his mouth dropping ever-so-slightly.

“I take that back,” I backtrack, pulling in a breath. “I think Lincoln would be beside himself and I don’t want that for him. He loves the game.”

The words come out and I ignore how hard they smash against my chest, remind me of reality. Of the pecking order. Of the insecurity I have as to how I compare to a game with a wooden stick and a piece of leather.