Page 27 of Strike Zone

“I heated it up. Lauren cooked,” I say, taking my seat across from her. I hand her a fork and place a bowl of pasta in front of her.

“Looks good.” She takes a dainty bite and chews methodically.

“Are you counting your chews?” I shove a large bite in my mouth and almost swallow it whole. I barely taste it as it slides down my throat.

“It’s better for your digestive system if you chew your food at least twenty times,” she says meekly. I hate that she’s shying away from me. I don’t like this Wren. I like it when she battles me back. I like it when she is feisty and breathing fire.

“Uh-huh.” I take another bite of my meal.

“You did a really good job heating this up,” she says without a trace of sarcasm. It makes me laugh. A genuine compliment about heating food in the microwave. “What? I’m serious. It can be difficult to get even heat distribution in the microwave.”

“I know you’re serious. That’s why I’m laughing.” I take another bite of food. She hasn’t taken her eyes off the bowl. “The key is to keep the food on the edge of the glass plate so it spins around.” I twirl my fork in the air.

“Good to know. For next time.”

We eat in silence until my phone starts making noise again. Her eyes twitch with each notification of an incoming text. Is this how she reacts to my texts too?

I respond to my brothers. Damn, I hate not being at home. This time of year is really busy. We are preparing the fields to plant and moving everything from the greenhouses. The equipment breaking down isn’t making things any easier.

All the work falls on my family and anyone willing to break their back for a homemade pie baked by my sister, Willow. She makes a mean pie, but I’m not sure it’s worth the price of spending hours in the sun.

“Are you sure everything is okay? Your face is really wrinkly.”

“You always say the sweetest things to me, birdie.”

“I wish you wouldn’t call me that.”

“Why?”

“It’s not my name,” she says. I wonder if there is another reason. Nicknames are more intimate. They’re personal. Wren doesn’t do intimate. I shouldn’t either.

At least I shouldn’t want to with her, but for whatever reason I’m doing it without thinking of the backlash.

Ever since we’ve started this makeshift friendship, I find myself craving her dry humor and sharp comebacks. I’ve become accustomed to people on campus sugar coating their words to make a good impression on me in order to get something from me.

Your dick is everyone’s type. Trust me. You are not. I still find myself amused by that one. It was an insult but also the truth. I know why I’m popular with the women on campus.

Wren is right. Most people only get to know me on a surface level. Her opinions are probably accurate based on what I’ve given her to work with, but there’s more to me than good looks and fun times. At least I like to think so.

“It is now.” I smirk at her. “You can give me a nickname too.”

“You don’t want me to do that.” She takes another bite of her dinner.

“Why not? I bet you even have something in mind.”

“The names I call you in my mind aren’t very nice,” she says, her focus locked in on creating the perfect bite with her fork.

“I don’t believe you.”

She shrugs. “Believe what you want. Either way, you won’t be getting a nickname.”

“Whatever you say, birdie.”

She scowls. “Stop.”

“Nah, I don’t think I will.” I can’t. In the middle of all the problems my family is facing at the farm, having this woman get angry at me makes me happy. It’s a feeling I don’t want to stop chasing.

My phone lights up again with a new text from Colt. It has me frowning.

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