Page 111 of Holding On To Good

Sipping her coffee, Willow watched the opposing team take the field. Kept glancing at Urban as he spoke to his first batter, crouching so he could get on the kid’s level, giving the kid a soft pat on the top of his or her—it was so hard to tell—batting helmet as he straightened.

And looked right up at her, as if he felt her watching him.

Even with all that lovely distance, space and breathing room between them, she could somehow feel his gaze on her, the heat from it like a touch, warm and insistent.

Interested.

Attracted.

As if maybe, just maybe, he was having as hard a time with this getting back to normal thing as she was.

As if maybe he wasn’t as on board with it as he’d claimed to be.

Yet one more thing they had in common. Why not? They already shared a business, a friendship and a history together.

Might as well be liars together, too.

Waiting for Willow might just kill him.

In the dugout after the game, Urban shoved a batting helmet into the huge equipment bag. He picked up a bat then glanced out across the field, his fingers tightening on the handle.

She stood on the other side of the fence behind Homeplate in a pair of cuffed jean shorts and a white T-shirt sporting a watercolor of a flock of flamingos.

Grinding his back teeth together, he tossed the bat onto the bench and swiped up another helmet. Threw it into the bag.

Fucking flamingoes.

But it wasn’t the bright, cheerful birds that pissed him off. Or the sight of her long, toned legs or that she’d done something different to her hair, braiding tiny pieces at the front and pinning them back. It wasn’t the pink gloss on her lips, the only visible makeup she wore. It wasn’t even the dark sunglasses she wore that hid her eyes from him.

It was the fact that she wasn’t alone.

Finn Calhoun, the owner/operator of St. Honore’s Bakery, was there, too.

Fucking Finn.

He’d sat next to Willow halfway through the first half of the first inning. Had stayed there, like his ass was glued to the bleachers, for the entire game, talking to her. Making her smile.

Yanking the bag closed, Urban stood in the dugout’s entrance. A part of him, a tiny, angry, bitter part, wanted to ignore her. Wanted to head in the opposite direction, get in his truck and take off without acknowledging her presence.

Hell, he wasn’t proud of it. But it was there. He wouldn’t deny it.

He also wouldn’t give in to it. Willow had given up over two hours of her Saturday morning to be here, to watch Ian play. To support a member of his family, just like she’d done so many times over the years. Attending Verity’s high school volleyball matches and track meets. Being there at Binge’s opening night two years ago. She sat in the front row with them at Miles’s graduation from the police academy and Eli’s college graduation. Had arranged a party for Silas during his last visit home.

Even years ago, when Urban had first come back to town after his parents’ deaths, she’d accompanied him to the various sporting events his brothers had been in, cheering them on as if they were her own family, helping to look after a clingy, heartbroken Verity. She’d been there for them, for him, at his parents’ funeral and for days after when Miranda had gone back to school and so many of his friends had slipped away, not knowing what to say or the right thing to do to help. When it’d just been him and his family. Lost, alone and grieving.

Willow had been there. She’d helped them get through those first few shitty months after their parents died. Had stuck by them all this time, attending family parties and Sunday dinners. Celebrating holidays and graduations.

Always there.

So, no, he wouldn’t ignore her.

Even if she had slipped back into their old routine as easy as you please. Smiling at him in her warm, friendly way. Teasing him about his attention to the smallest detail and habit of looking for issues before they arose. Talking to him about her sister’s upcoming wedding and showing him pictures of her nephew. Asking him if he was surviving Verity’s punishment and laughing at the things he’d told her the kids on the T-ball game say and do during practice.

They were back to normal. Just like she’d wanted.

Except it was a new normal. One where, every once in a while, he’d catch her watching him only to blush and quickly avert her gaze when he looked back. One where he noticed things about her that had somehow escaped his attention before. Like how she frowned when she sketched a design, a narrow line forming between her brows. How she tipped her head to the left and paced when she talked on the phone, or the way she mouthed the words to every song that played on the radio at the shop, and most of the ads, too.

Things he hadn’t let himself notice before like how the ends of her pale hair curl just slightly against her neck. How she moved, languid and graceful, whether hanging drywall, laying floor or arranging a vase of flowers. The way she smiled, quick and brilliant, her pink lips turning up centimeter by centimeter until it looked as if she was lit from within.

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