Page 40 of Mom Ball

A few seconds later, Nate turns his head toward the door. I step back, hoping he won’t see me, but I’m not quick enough.

“Hey, Brooke. Come in, he’s a natural.”

I enter and close the door behind me, a little embarrassed that I opened it without knocking.

“Timothy, why didn’t you ask to come here?”

“You were at work.”

“Why didn’t you ask Granny or Smith?” I cross my arms and walk toward them.

He shrugs.

Nate stands when I get within a few feet of them. “I’m sorry. I had no idea y’all didn’t know he was here.”

“Sorry.” Timothy hangs his head.

I unfold my arms. “It’s okay, but we were worried. We need to know where you are, and Mr. Nate might have been busy.”

I glance at Nate. He smiles. “I told him I’d help him anytime I’m home, didn’t I, buddy?”

Timothy smiles and nods.

“I appreciate it, but we never want to impose or be a burden.”

“Brooke, you and Timothy are never a burden.”

My heartbeat speeds to an unhealthy level. I can’t answer that without revealing how I truly feel about him and more. Especially since my gut instinct is to ask him to marry us.

After the shock of those words coming from his mouth wears off, I manage to respond in a more conventional way. “Well, thanks for helping him again.” I turn to Timothy. “We need to get home for you to eat and shower.”

Nate pats him on the back. “You did good tonight, bud.”

“Thanks, Mr. Nate.”

“Call me Nate, since we’re friends.” He jerks his gaze toward me. “If that’s okay with your mom, of course.”

“It’s fine.” I smile, but my stomach pinches. I’ve worked so hard to keep things professional between Nate and me that I haven’t tried to keep them professional between Nate and Timothy. I guess it’s fine if they’re friends.

That is, until Nate is gone all the time playing ball.

“Come on, Timothy.” I wrap my arm around his shoulder and help guide him toward the door.

Nate follows us. I don’t turn to see, but I’m fully aware of his presence. His big body looming over me and his signature scent drifting in the air. You’d think he’d have switched to more sophisticated deodorant by now.

We continue out the door and toward Nate’s house, where I parked.

“You came on the four-wheeler?” he asks.

“Yeah.” My voice is hesitant. Something in me doesn’t like him saying “the four-wheeler,” as if implying he remembers that particular four-wheeler.

Either he’s thinking of me driving off in my bathrobe, which isn’t good, or he’s thinking of when we rode it through the apple trees in our younger years. Also not good.

Knowing he remembers it conjures up my memories of us on it together. Back when we were together.

That was a simpler time when nobody was worried about adulthood or where we’d end up. And I sure as heck wasn’t worried about half-a-dozen plastic sticks on my dorm room desk that had every indicator from double lines to pink pluses that a baby was growing inside of me.

“You can drive, Timothy.”

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