Page 26 of Strike Zone

I’m not even that hungry.

I needed to get away from Wren.

I’m a man. It doesn’t take much to turn me on. I’ve never met a woman who didn’t get my dick at least a little excited. She, however, shouldn’t be one of them.

Wren in her cream linen pants and striped blouse.

Wren pressed up against my chest.

Wren on her hands and knees on my bed.

The last straw was her bent over the side table.

I slam another cabinet door.

“You okay in there?” Nash calls out from the living room.

“We don’t have any food!” What’s a guy gotta do to get some chips around here? Fuck, I’d take a saltine cracker at this point.

“Check the fridge. Hart brought home some kind of chicken and pasta dish Lauren made last night. That shit was good.”

“Must be nice to have a girlfriend that cooks all the time. I bet he never goes hungry,” I mutter to myself as I pull out the leftovers. I open up the lid and groan. It smells fucking amazing.

I grab two bowls from the cabinet and scoop a few heaping spoonfuls in each one. While I wait for the pasta to heat up, I catch up on my family group chat.

They managed to get the fencing fixed but now one of the stable roofs is leaking and the big tractor broke down. Translation: the farm is falling apart.

Everything my family has spent generations working to build is turning to complete horseshit and there’s nothing I can do about it.

Ford would remind me that I’m doing my job. Getting my degree and following “my dreams” of getting drafted. It’s not where I want to be. If it wasn’t for the promise of a big payday, I would quit playing. My heart isn’t in baseball anymore. It hasn’t been since high school.

Playing professional baseball was never the end game. I want to be at home helping my family fix our legacy and make it into something that will carry on for generations.

But I’m stuck here. I’m wasting days on women I’ll never remember and playing a game that doesn’t mean anything to me.

When the microwave dings, I grab a couple of forks and throw them on a tray along with some napkins and the bowls of food. Shit, they’re hot. Not as hot as Wren looked on my bed. “Damn it.” I’ve got to stop thinking about that. I shake out my hand to relieve the burn. I find two bottles of water in the fridge and tuck them under my arm.

Taking a few deep breaths, I mentally prepare myself to be in Wren’s presence as I walk down the stairs. There is no reason for my body to react to her the way it is. She’s here to help me get in good with Charlie for fuck’s sake. My dick needs to get with the program. She is not an option.

When I reach the bottom step, it takes me a second to realize the den is empty. I leave the tray of food on the table and check the bathroom. Maybe Wren is in there. The door is cracked open and the lights are off. I bang my head against the door frame.

I can’t handle seeing Wren in my room again. As it is, I know I will be going to bed with her wildflower scent lingering in the air. Big mistake on my part inviting her over. I’ve completely underestimated her. I won’t be doing that again.

Standing by the door, I watch as she flies around the room like a little bird. My little birdie. She’s managed to fold all the laundry on the bed, organize my shoes that were all over the room, and now she appears to be moving my weights to the corner of the room.

Wren has one of my fifty pound weights in her hands and is attempting to waddle it across the room. The damn thing is probably close to a third of her weight. When the dumbbell almost slips out of her grasps I jump into action.

“Damn it, birdie. Give me that.” I take it out of her hands. “Where are you putting it?”

“Over there.” She points to the opposite wall. “In the corner by your desk.”

“What are you doing in here?” I ask as I pick the other weight off the floor and move it to the corner with the first one. It’s actually the perfect spot for them. I can watch my new favorite murder documentary Lauren has me hooked on and do my reps.

“I couldn’t focus knowing what was hiding behind the door.” Wren’s hands are clasped together in front of her and she nibbles on her lower lip. She’s lying. She wanted to see what I would do to her if she wasn’t sitting in that chair like I asked.

“I told you to wait for me out there.” I step closer and she fidgets under my stare. “I made dinner.” Placing my hands on her shoulders, I spin her around and escort her out of my room.

“You cooked?”

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