Unforgettable (Cloverleigh Farms #5)(49)

“We could, but this will be so much more romantic and relaxing. Remember what we talked about at dinner the other night? We’re looking for ways to help you be less grumpy.” She poured in some stuff from a bottle labeled Vanilla Bergamot Dream.

I sniffed. “You’re going to make me smell like a cupcake.”

“Perfect. No one can be grumpy when they smell like a cupcake.” She turned off the water, lowered herself into the tub, and crooked her finger at me. “Come hither, boy.”

“I’m not even going to fit. I think you’re forgetting I’m six foot five.”

“I’ll make room.” She scooted all the way to one end and threw a handful of bubbles at me. “Come on, it’ll be fun. I’ll give you a massage and you can talk about your feelings. It will be like that scene in Pretty Woman.”

Grumbling, I managed to get into the tub without spilling too much water over the side. I couldn’t stretch my legs out all the way, but I was able to wedge myself in between April’s.

She wrapped them around me, along with her arms. “There. Doesn’t that feel nice?”

I had to admit it did.

“This tub was the thing that made me say yes to buying this place,” she said, rubbing bubbles over my chest. That felt nice too.

“You take a lot of baths?”

“Yes. But not with other people.”

“So I’m the first guest in your tub?”

“You are the first,” she confirmed, crossing her ankles above my hips.

I grabbed one of her feet and pressed a hand to the bottom of it. “You have very small feet.”

“You have very big hands.”

“I know.”

“Did that help you pitch better?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.” I rubbed the sole of her foot with my thumb. “The truth is, I don’t know what made me so good. I mean, I worked hard, I had the physical size and strength, and I was intensely focused, but all of that was true right up to the day I couldn’t throw strikes anymore. Nothing had changed. So what was it?”

“I don’t know,” she said softly.

“Sometimes I wonder if there was always a time limit on it. Like, did God say, ‘Here you go, kid. You’re gonna be one of the best in the game, but it’s gonna be over before you know it. Enjoy it while it lasts.’”

She was quiet a minute while I kept rubbing her foot. “Let’s say that’s true. Let’s even say God gave you the choice. Would you choose it?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, what if God, or whoever it is that hands out souls, came to you before you were born and said, ‘In your next life, you’ll be a rock star baseball pitcher—but only for a limited time, and you won’t like the way it ends.’ Would you take the talent? Or would you say ‘no, thanks?’”

I didn’t even have to think about it. “I’d take the talent.”

“That’s what I thought.”

But for a few minutes, I wondered what I would have done with my life if I hadn’t had the talent. If my dad had never taught me the game. If I hadn’t grown up with a glove on one hand and a ball in the other. If I’d never swung a bat or heard that satisfying crack as it connected with the ball before sailing over the fence.

I couldn’t imagine it.

“You just have to decide what you want now,” she went on. “Because you can’t go back.”

“Like right now?”

She giggled. “Why do I feel like I know where this is going?”

I looked at her over one shoulder. “What I want right now is to do very bad things to you in this tub.”

The dimples appeared. “Then it’s definitely your lucky day.”





Eventually, the rain stopped, the sky went dark, and I got dressed, reluctantly retrieving all the pieces of my suit from last night and pulling them on. It was crazy to me that I didn’t want to leave.

Which was exactly why I made myself do it.

Spending the entire day with April had been a little too comfortable. The last thing I needed was to start getting confused about what this was—and I didn’t want to do that to April either. Staying the rest of the week was fine, but when seven days were up, I was getting on that plane.

“What are you up to tomorrow?” I asked her at the door.

“Monday is usually my day off for errands and stuff,” she said, “but I actually have to go over to Cloverleigh in the morning for a meeting with my sisters about our dad’s retirement party.”

“Oh, when is that?”

“End of the month. What will you do tomorrow?”

“Work out in the morning, most likely, and then head over to baseball practice in the afternoon. I’d like to stick around long enough to help that kid with his motion, watch him pitch a game or two.”

She smiled. “Aha! So it’s not only about sex, it’s about baseball too.”

“It’s about baseball too,” I confessed.

“Listen, I think that’s great. Baseball is part of your soul, and you need to find a way to love it again. I think hating it is taking too much out of you.”

“You’re probably right,” I said.