She heads to the door but pauses before she leaves. “If you need anything, call me. I love this romantic stuff.”
“It isn’t romance,” I point out. “It’s just . . . me trying to not be a jerk.”
Camilla grins the same grin our mother gives us when she sees right through our fibs. “If you care enough that you looked like a jerk that you want to go out of your way to fix it, that’s romantic, Barrett. Sorry to break the news to you.”
I watch her leave, her words hitting me head-on.
If I go out of my way to apologize, that would lead her to believe I’m interested.
I am interested.
But do I want to be that interested? Can I afford to be that interested?
The sound of the door closing at the Farm as she walked out echoes through my memories.
Alison
THE CHEESE OOZES DOWN THE side of the bowl, inching slowly down the china, before it globs on the plate below.
It looks divine.
I carry the leftover macaroni and cheese to the living room and sit at the coffee table, stretching my legs out in front of me. The television is playing a soap opera that my grandma used to watch growing up. I always find it hysterical that I can not watch it for months at a time and tune in and feel like I didn’t miss a beat.
Glancing at the clock, I still have a few hours before Huxley gets home from school. After paying bills this morning and doing oddball household chores, I decided to indulge in my favorite food before taking a long bubble bath . . . the one I haven’t had a chance to take since my missed opportunity three days ago.
My chest tightens at the thought.
So do my thighs.
Barrett is everything I knew he would be. Intense, mesmerizing, and at the end of the day, a bit arrogant. Who is he to think I would just roll over for him? Or under him?
I fan my face at the thought of being beneath his hard, chiseled body.
Damn it!
Even now, days later and with the knowledge that he has the same conceited vein I hated in Hayden, I can’t stop thinking about him. Arrogant or not, I’d be lying if I said he didn’t make me feel alive, that he didn’t make me feel like switches were turned on in my life.
Up until he opened his mouth right before I left, I could’ve been convinced there was a chance that he was different. But he’s not. And while I guess that kind of behavior is somewhat normal for men of his caliber—how could it not be when they always get what they want?—it’s a deal breaker for me, plain and simple.
I dig my fork into the goopy pile of cheese and try not to let my spirits sink. I’m doing things the right way, building a future for Huxley. Protecting him from men that will only do damage to our lives . . . like his pathetic excuse of a father.
My chest pangs a little as I remember the life I thought we had. The comfortable, stable life that showered him with love and confidence. But his father went up the ladder and left us ducking the consequences of his activities as he scaled higher. Now, here we are in this little house hundreds of miles away, starting over.
Starting smarter.
I want to build a future for my son. I want to fall in love. I just want to do both things in a cohesive manner . . . which means staying away from men that have the potential of landing me and Hux right back where we started.
Groaning at the sound of the doorbell ringing, I scramble to my feet and glance down at my t-shirt, hoping it’s clean.
“Who is it?” I call through the heavy wooden frame.
“A delivery for Alison Baker.”
Curious, I pull open the door to see a local courier on my stoop with an envelope in his hand. “Are you Ms. Baker?”
“I am.”
He smiles. “I have this for you. Sign here, please.”
I give him a loopy signature and take the envelope. There’s no return address, no indication who it’s from or what’s inside.
Once the door is shut tight and I’m back on the couch, I rip open the top. Pulling out a letter on Georgia Hornets, the professional baseball team in Atlanta, letterhead, I gasp.
Dear Ms. Baker,
It is with great pleasure that we inform you that we’ve set aside season tickets to all of our home games next season. Two passes will be available for you and a guest in Will Call before each and every game. If you’re unable to attend, you’re more than welcome to send someone in your place. Please give us a courtesy notice prior so we can have them appropriately saved.
We look forward to seeing you in the stands!
Go Hornets!
Peter Capinella, CEO
Oh my God!
I squeal a little, imagining Huxley’s face. He’s never been to a professional game before and—season tickets? Getting to see every home game? He’ll be over the moon. Even I’m giddy about it and I hate baseball. We’ve been to a handful of minor league games, but never a professional one. I can’t wait to see his face when he finds out.