Page 70 of Strike Zone

She hangs up the phone before I can respond. Did she just say what I think she said? She wants rocky road? That’s a travesty against ice cream. I’m flipping the fuck out as the cab makes its way to Diana’s block. Do I mention her call sign-off? Probably not. It’s an easy slip-up. There’s no way she meant it.

I grab two tubs of Ben and Jerry’s before heading up to her apartment. Knocking on the door, my stomach is in knots. All night she was on my mind every moment. I just wanted to come here, stand in this exact spot, have her open the door, and greet me with a kiss.

The lock turns, and the jangle of the chain being slid open makes me impatient to set eyes on her. When she appears at the door, she’s in sweats and a cute figure-hugging top, and I can’t pull my stare from her stomach. Her baby bump is growing by the day, and hoodies won’t be able to hide it any longer. It’s gorgeous.

“What? Do I have food on my shirt again?” She starts swiping at the fabric for invisible crumbs. “I don’t see it.”

“I know you don’t.” I pull her into my arms, willing myself not to kiss her. The smell of her shampoo is so subtle but enticing. She wraps her hands around my waist, holding me tight as she rests her head on my chest.

“Are you okay?”

“Better now.” I hug her a little too hard.

“Easy, my bladder has been reduced to the size of a grape. I’ll pee myself if you squeeze too tight.”

“Sorry.” I step back before absentmindedly reaching my hand out to cradle the soft swell of her stomach. “Are you okay?” As her eyes meet mine, time stands still, my gaze fixed on hers, my heart hammering in my chest.

“I…”

“What? Tell me.” My voice is barely recognizable, a whisper in the midnight air.

“I need to go to the restroom. Come in. Make yourself at home, and I’ll be right back.” She quickly scurries off down the hallway to her bedroom. I want to go after her, but the moment has passed. I forage in her kitchen for a clean spoon so she can devour her rocky road, but the girl is a one-woman shitshow when it comes to domestic matters. The sink is piled high with the remnants of her dinner with Brooke, and yet the dishwasher is sitting empty. How does anyone living alone manage to use every spoon they own making one dinner?

When Diana reappears, her cheeks are flushed, her demeanor almost shy.

“Here’s your ice cream.” I hand her a tub and set about cleaning up her kitchen.

“You don’t need to do that.”

“No offense, but your place gives me hives. How hard is it to put a dirty dish directly into the dishwasher? They don’t have to make a stop in the sink for three days.”

“Those have only been there for a few hours.”

“Yeah, because I was here yesterday and left this place spotless.”

“You’re so domesticated, Linc. After your baseball career is over, maybe you can be the next Martha Stewart.”

“What, end up in prison? No thanks. I’m thinking more of the Pioneer Woman vibe.” That diffuses the tension, and I’m rewarded with her radiant smile.

“So, hotshot, how was your night? You smell like whiskey… and a hint of some cheap perfume. It made me gag when you hugged me.” Do I see a hint of jealousy in her eyes?

“That would be Becky.”

“Becky?”

“Yeah, the piranha at Viper who wanted to make the beast with two backs the minute she clocked who I was.”

She turns on her heels and heads for the living room, dumping down on the couch with her ice cream. I take a moment to finish cleaning up her sink before grabbing a beer from the refrigerator and taking a seat beside her.

“Was she good?” She can’t even look at me.

“What are you talking about?” I set my drink down on the coffee table and grab her ankles, lifting her feet into my lap.

“Your bathroom-stall hookup. Becky.” Her snide voice makes me laugh. She can’t hide her distaste.

“Why do you care? You keep telling me we’re just friends. I’ve offered you more, and you haven’t even broached the subject since then.”

She opens her mouth to protest but instead fills her mouth with a heaped spoonful of rocky road. I pull off her socks and start massaging her feet. “You don’t need to do that. My feet are gross.”

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