Page 15 of Bad Ball Hitter

Miranda.

The name pops into my mind like a cold splash of water dousing my fantasies. Suddenly, the room feels too small, like the walls are closing on me. An awkward silence blankets the room, making it difficult to breathe, let alone find words for a long overdue conversation.

But how the hell did my forever girl come to live with my girlfriend?

I straighten quickly and look away, locking gazes with a pair of dark brown eyes, not quite the same shape as mine but similar enough to send shivers down my spine.

And then it clicks.

The little boy standing beside her is about as old as the time since I left.

My heart pounds as I struggle to form the question burning on my tongue. “Is he … is he mine?”

CHAPTER SIX

Lila

Is he mine?

The question doesn’t resonate. I still can’t process how this is possible. How can the guy who placed my heart through a shredder without a second thought be standing in my kitchen … shirtless?

My stomach dips as realization hits. No, no, no. Drake can’t be the boyfriend Miranda bragged about. He just can’t.

I think I’m going to be sick. I spent most of the night covering Jake’s ears, hoping like hell he didn’t hear them going at it all night.

“Lila,” that voice that’s gotten more profound over the years jars me to the present—to him. Our gazes clash, and I ward off every ounce of attraction that wants to burst through. He’s actually here. “Your son, Lila. Is Jake mine?”

Gripping the spatula tightly, I scramble back to a standing position. Drake doesn’t know about Jake. Of course, he doesn’t. How could he? When everything went down, I left town and never returned. There wasn’t any reason to.

“No,” I say when I finally find my voice.

Drake stands immobile as he processes the information. He’s so still, I can’t tell if he’s relieved or… No! Don’t be stupid. He wouldn’t be disappointed. The Drake I knew has spent these years banging his way through Philadelphia. He didn’t act like a guy who was looking to settle. In fact, I shouldn’t have been surprised he is here with Miranda. They’re a perfect match. They both use people.

And to think I had felt sorry for his ass. He deserves every bit of what she’ll drag him through. They both do.

“No?” Drake’s eyes search mine, deep and intense. They’re the shade of the evening sky right before it turns black, full of stars you can’t see yet but know are there—just like the questions he’s not asking—the ones I don’t want to answer.

I turn away and walk toward the countertop, where the bowl of pancake batter waits. A laugh bubbles up, unbidden and tinged with hysteria. This isn’t happening. Drake can’t be here in my kitchen, looking like every dream I have ever given up on.

“Are you serious?” My voice comes out steadier than I feel.

He reaches out, his hand hovering over mine, but doesn’t touch. I wish he would. Or maybe I don’t. It’s hard to tell with how my skin prickles with awareness, every cell remembering his touch from a lifetime ago.

God, why is he here?

“It’s just that he’s about the age when I left.”

“He’s seven. A year off.”

There’s a pause, heavy and loaded. Then Drake straightens, his arms crossing over his chest, the muscles flexing—a professional athlete in his prime. And yet, there’s something vulnerable in how he watches me as if it pains him to see me. He runs his hand along his jaw, resting on his whiskers.

“Is he Roy’s?” His voice has a hard edge that I don’t understand.

“No. Of course not.”

“Sorry,” he finally says, though it sounds like it costs him. “Just … no one ever told me you had a child.”

His apology wraps around me, soft and unexpected. My fingers curl into my palm, holding back words that want to spill out. Words about nights spent wrapped in each other’s arms, about promises whispered against my skin.

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