The Hot Mess and the Heartthrob(47)
It’s impossible to not smile back when her amusement is lighting the whole building. “I can live with that. How’s Skippy?”
“Grounded.”
She lifts a small cat carrier. The squirrel is gripping the bars like he knows he’s in prison.
“He seems like a good squirrel. You should consider a work release program.”
Her laughter eases something deep inside me that I didn’t know needed easing. My shoulders relax and relief loosens my neck too.
And when she sets the carrier on the kitchen nook table and opens the door, letting Skippy climb up her arm to sit on her shoulder and nibble at her hair, eyeing the squirrel like he’s been adopted into the fold and he’s not just an obligation she’s taken on to make her kids happy, my heart swells with warmth and I subconsciously close the distance between us.
There’s something about seeing someone smile at another person—or animal, or plant, or rock, or whatever—and knowing that they want the best for them. That she’s spreading goodness outward instead of trying to keep it all inside for herself, even when she’s already given so much.
She deserves a break.
She won’t ask for it. Which means it’s up to me to make it happen.
I reach for her hip, ignoring the glare from the squirrel. “When—” I start, but Chuck sticks his head in the door.
“You back? Handyman just got here.”
She straightens and smooths her skirt. Skippy leaps for the table and uses the coffee pot as a springboard to get on top of the cabinet.
“Yes. Thank you. I’ll be right down.” Her gaze collides with mine, and I get a subtle scent of turned-on woman.
So much better than cheesecake.
“Thank you—” she starts the same time I say, “I’ll text about—”
We both stop.
Grin.
And meet in the middle for a kiss.
My bodyguard is watching, so it’s short. I’d consider firing him, except security is an unfortunate necessity. Last time I tried to grab a burger at home by myself…let’s just say it was the last time local law enforcement was willing to do me a favor.
“Later,” she whispers.
“Count on it.”
Chuck offers to chase the squirrel into his cage before my brain can recover from kissing Ingrid to do the same.
I would’ve.
I swear.
Just not while short-circuiting on everything about this woman.
I’m free until six—private concert tonight for one of my favorite charities—so I head the few blocks to Fireballs headquarters to bug Tripp at work.
It’s unusual to catch him alone in his office, but I manage it. “Not making out with your wife-to-be?”
“She’s handling construction issues at the field.” His goofy grin—very uncharacteristic of my overly-serious big brother—makes me both happy for him and jealous that he’s managed to find another woman in his life that he loves as much as he loved his first wife.
Hell, as much as we all loved her. Hurt worse than anything I’ve ever lived through when she died.
The jealousy isn’t explainable, nor is it familiar.
And it’s not something I have any intention of thinking about right now.
I kick back on the orange couch in his office, which he refuses to let anyone replace. Even after being completely and thoroughly sanitized by a forensic clean-up crew, it’s disgusting, inherited from the previous owner, who was a horny old guy with questionable taste in friends and companions and a terrible work ethic when it came to overseeing the ball team.
Considering my brother’s war with hypochondria, I know the couch isn’t here because he likes it, but rather because it’s his constant reminder of how bad the Fireballs were, and how much work they still have to do to keep the faith of the fans in Copper Valley again.
One successful season of not being the worst team in baseball doesn’t make a trend.
“You hiding from being told you picked the wrong layout for the seating chart?” I ask.
“Nope. Tied up with scouting reports.”
“Is that a subtle hint for me to leave?”
“Of course not. I want to know all about the woman who dropped by your place after she gave you a concussion, and you’ve been ignoring my texts.”
I grab a baseball and flip it in the air a few times. “Playboy bunny. I’m bringing her to Thanksgiving. With her pole.”
“You’re taking a poll? About what?” Beck sticks his head in the door too, followed by Cash Rivers.
“Dude!” I stand and give him a man-hug. “Welcome home.”
He thumps me on the back. “Had to come here since someone stood me up twice in a week.”
Beck’s grinning. “Are we taking a poll on how serious Levi is about this chick if he’s skipping bro time for her?”
“We’re taking a poll about how we’re going to torture you to get Mom’s boyfriend’s name.”
“Won’t work. My lips are sealed.”
I eyeball Cash.
He grins and shakes his head, making his shaggy light brown hair shake with it. “I know nothing. But I wouldn’t mind knowing more about this chick who has you running home with your balls tucked between your legs.”
As if I’m saying a word about Ingrid to any of these guys. Cash isn’t into settling down either, but that doesn’t mean he won’t rib me as hard as Tripp and Beck will. “Not a chick. A chicken. I heard there’s a specialty store nearby with two-foot chickens that squeak extra long.”