Page 112 of Holding On To Good

In their new normal, she kept her distance from him. Went out of her way to keep as much space between them as possible, inches or feet or miles. She didn’t touch him anymore. He hadn’t realized how often she’d done so before, how many times she’d brush his hand with her fingers while they talked, how she’d give him a light, friendly swat on the arm when he teased her. How she’d wrap him in a warm, friendly hug, their bodies aligned for the briefest of moments before she stepped back with a grin.

He missed it. Missed what they used to be.

But, Christ, he wanted more.

And he wasn’t sure how long he could keep pretending he didn’t.

Hefting the bag higher, he stepped out into the sunlight. Had only gone one step toward Willow—and fucking Finn—when a familiar voice stopped him.

“Urban?”

He turned and faced Miranda. Today’s outfit was a light blue denim dress she’d gathered at the waist with a wide, tan belt. Her sandals had a thick, wedge heel, her hair was pulled back on the sides, her makeup minimal.

Miranda’s version of Saturday morning casual.

Hell, he’d known her for years, had touched every part of her body, slept with her and seen her naked, but he’d never seen her without makeup.

Even when they spent the night together she’d get up early and jump in the shower, put on mascara and lip gloss and brush her hair.

It was her shield, he realized now, seeing the nerves in her eyes, the way she stood so stiffly. Her shield and a way to hide herself.

“Miranda,” he said in way of greeting. He nodded at her kids. The boy glared from under his ball cap, all hunched shoulders and bad attitude. The girl, her hair done up an intricate braid, smiled sunnily, waved then did a twirl that had her almost toppling over.

Miranda caught a hold of Alayna’s arm, made sure the girl had caught her balance then cleared her throat. “Could I… do you have a minute?”

He glanced at Willow but she was wrapped up in whatever story Finn’s seven-year-old daughter Siobhan—one of Urban’s better players—was telling her. Was way too busy smiling at Finn. Standing too close to him.

She wouldn’t miss Urban. Wouldn’t be looking for him.

Hell, she might not even be waiting for him. She might still be here for the sole purpose of talking to Finn.

Shaking off the irritation that thought brought to mind, he inclined his head toward the concession stand. The next game was starting soon and coaches and players were brushing past them to get to the dugout and field. Moving would get them out of the other teams’ way.

It’d also let him keep Willow in sight.

With a small, grateful smile, Miranda turned and walked away, Alayna skipping beside her, holding her hand, Josh dragging his feet and throwing death glares over his shoulder at Urban every few feet.

Their merry little troupe approached Willow and she turned her head, her smile slipping as she caught sight of them. Her gaze locked with Urban’s for one long moment before she squared her shoulders and faced Finn again. Said something that had Siobhan giggling and Finn grinning.

Urban had to look away before he did something stupid.

He followed Miranda to the nearest picnic table. Set the equipment bag on the bench seat and waited while she gave Josh a twenty and sent him and Alayna to the concession stand.

When they ran off, she smiled at Urban. Smoothed her palms down the skirt of her dress. “I was wondering… hoping… you might have room on your team for Josh?”

He glanced over his shoulder at Willow. Still with Finn, minus Siobhan who’d taken off to play tag near the tennis courts. Still too close to the other man. Still smiling at him.

Jealousy swept through him, thick and black.

Mouth tight, Urban faced Miranda. “Team signups were last month.”

“I understand, but we weren’t here last month.” Her small smile turned self-deprecating and sad as she added, “I had no idea we’d be here now. Or that we’d be staying.”

“Coaches don’t pick the players for their teams. They’re assigned by the league president, Joe Trask.” He nodded at a group of men near the minor league field’s home bleachers. “He’s the bald guy next to Mike Palmer. You should talk to him. But from what I’ve seen, he’s not big on making exceptions to his rules.”

“I’ll speak with him, but maybe it’d help if you put in a good word for Josh, too? As a favor for an old friend?”

“I’m not sure it’d do any good,” he said, looking over his shoulder again.

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