Page 74 of Mom Ball

My mouth drops and two very different emotions get in a bidding war for real estate of my brain.

“What?” he asks when he glances up.

“It’s nothing. You called me dumpling, that’s all.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“No, it’s fine.” Without thinking, I reach across the table and grab his hand.

He wraps his strong fingers around my much-smaller hand and my pulse elevates.

The waiter comes back with chips and salsa. “Can I get you drinks?”

I let go of Nate’s hand and clear my throat. “Water. Ice water, with extra ice.”

“Okay.” He turns to Nate.

My heart kicks into mild cardiac arrest as I scan the menu absentmindedly to act as if nothing is out of the ordinary. In reality, everything is out of the ordinary.

My child and I are about to ingest food from Inn The Hole Enchilada, Nate just called me dumpling for the first time in ages, and we were holding hands. Either I’m in some sort of twilight zone, or I’m having an early midlife crisis.

Nate orders sweet tea, and I find the word “taco.” I call out the number for what I hope is chicken tacos and hand the guy my menu.

The kids are laughing, and the adults are smiling as they chat.

“I like our team.”

Nate turns toward them and smiles. “They’re good people.”

“It’s kind of cool. There’s no other situation that would have Tami sharing cheese dip with Georgia.”

He laughs. “Or have Georgia eating here.”

“Confession.” I wince. “I’ve never eaten here either.”

He shrugs. “As long as you don’t get the special, you’re good.” He pops a chip in his mouth. “It’s known as a natural laxative.”

“So I’ve heard.”

We laugh, and I relax against the backrest. Sharing a basket of chips in a booth alone with Nate feels way too much like a date. And I love it.

A little too much.

This team also brought us together. Not that I wouldn’t have crossed paths with Nate eventually. But my kid standing in his yard asking for baseball help made that happen sooner than later.

I thought it was too soon, but I’m warming up to it being a blessing in disguise.

Our waiter delivers the drinks, along with an extra cup of ice for me. I glance at Nate, with his tight T-shirt and chiseled jaw. Maybe I should save myself the trouble and toss the ice on my face.

Nate and I chat casually until eventually we’re interrupted by a cloud of smoke, followed by a crackling sound, coming from behind us. A muscled bald man with a handlebar mustache brings a pan of fajitas and my tacos.

“Hot plate!” He all but drops the fajita skillet in front of Nate.

I lean back in case he’s dangerous with the tacos, but he isn’t. He hurries off and returns with more food for the tables.

“Tacos. Safe choice,” Nate comments.

“That was the plan.”

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