Unforgettable (Cloverleigh Farms #5)(51)

Frannie sighed. “We sort of tiptoed around it Saturday night. Mostly he and Mack talked about their old high school team, and the two of them just lit up remembering how awesome they were. They were like two peacocks strutting around the table.”

I laughed. “Yeah, they were a pretty awesome team. But for Tyler, he thought that was a forever thing. In his mind, it was the only thing he was good at, it was what he was meant to do with his life, and he staked everything on it. What happened felt like a betrayal of his own mind, his own body—if not his faith. Baseball was a religion for him.”

“Yeah, but he would have retired anyway, right? Nobody can play forever. What was his plan for after?”

I shook my head. “I’m telling you, he never even imagined it. It was baseball, then death.”

Her expression was amused. “That’s kinda dark.”

“I know.” I took another sip of coffee. “But I feel like coming back here was good for him. Between seeing his sister get married and taking an interest in coaching, I feel like he’s getting to the point where he can see the sun rising.”

“That’s good.” She was quiet a minute. “And what about you? Still doing okay with everything?”

“I’m fine,” I said with more confidence than I felt. “Really. We’re actually being very honest and open with each other. I know this is only temporary. He’s not staying forever. I just like being with him.”

“Okay. I’m only asking because I can tell you feel things for him, and now that I know what you went through, I just . . .” She shrugged. “You always put other people’s feelings first, that’s all.”

I smiled. “I’m a big girl, and I’m learning a lot about taking care of myself.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

But it wasn’t a promise I was certain I could keep.





I spent the rest of the day catching up on personal stuff and trying not to think too hard about anything—the fact that I’d been sleeping alone for years but had missed Tyler in my bed last night, that I still had no reply to my letter, that somehow I’d gotten saddled with giving a speech at my dad’s retirement party. What on earth was I going to say that wouldn’t bore everyone to tears?

I made a pot of spaghetti sauce, and while it was simmering, I sat down at the table to brainstorm some ideas. But the only thing I wrote down in my notebook was Tyler Shaw. I was still staring at his name when my phone buzzed.

Tyler Shaw calling.

I smiled and picked it up. “Hello?”

“Hey you. What’s up?”

“Not much. I’m at home freaking out about the speech I have to give at my dad’s retirement party.”

“Now you know how I felt about the dancing. Have you eaten dinner yet?”

I looked over at the stove. “I just made spaghetti sauce. Want to come over?”

“Mmm, I could go for some spaghetti sauce. Can I pour it over your naked body and lick it off?”

“That sounds . . . like a hot mess.”

“Hot messes in the kitchen are my specialty, remember?”

I laughed. “How could I forget?”

He arrived about twenty minutes later with a bottle of red wine and a smile that turned my bones to jelly. As soon as I shut the door behind him, he kissed me hello like he’d missed me.

“How was your day?” I asked as we moved into the kitchen.

“Great,” he said. “God, it smells good in here.”

“Thank you.”

“Reminds me of old times when I’d come home from practice and you’d have dinner made.”

“You definitely smell better tonight.”

He hooked an arm around my neck and pretended to choke me. “Admit it. You secretly loved the way I smelled.”

Laughing, I tried to get away but couldn’t. “I did not! It was like a gym bag that had been left out in the sun all day to bake!”

“I showered when I got home, didn’t I?”

“You did, thank God.” He finally let me go, and I set the bottle of wine on the counter.

“Want me to open that?”

“Sure. Corkscrew is in there.” I gestured toward the drawer and pulled down two glasses from the cupboard. “Did you go to practice this afternoon?”

“Yeah.” He took out the corkscrew and closed the drawer with his hip.

“How’d it go?”

“I think it went well.” After pulling the cork from the bottle, he poured us each a glass. “I worked with the lefty again. He’s struggling with his balance point, and his stride length is a little off too.”

“Can you help him?”

“I think so. He’s all concerned about speed and power, but that’s not gonna mean shit if he’s got no accuracy. It’s great to throw a ninety mile-per-hour pitch, but unless it goes where you want it to, it’s not much use. Trust me.”

I smiled sympathetically at him and turned on the gas beneath a large pot of water.

He picked up one of the glasses and took a sip. “Can I help you with something? I’m an expert in the kitchen now that I made pancakes.”

Laughing, I handed him a knife and a loaf of Italian bread. “Here. Slice this up, but not your hands, please. I’m partial to them.”