Page 52 of The Foul Out

He set his bottle down and rested the heels of his hands on the edge of the counter on either side of his hips. “I have an older brother, Ryan, who was diagnosed back when they called it Asperger syndrome.”

I stepped up beside him, a hip propped against the cabinets and a palm flat on the Formica.

His hand was just two inches from mine, I realized, as he looked down at it and I followed his gaze.

“My dad left when I was two,” he said, focusing on my face again. “I don’t remember him. I guess we saw him here and there during those early years.” He shrugged.

Instinctively, my hand twitched with the need to reach out and offer him comfort. But as he swallowed and glanced away, focusing on his beer, I choked back the urge.

“But by the time I was five, he didn’t come around anymore. So it was just Mom and Ryan and me.”

He tucked his chin to his chest and let out a slow breath. Then he turned so he was facing me and covered my hand with his. The rough skin encased mine in a warmth that soaked into me, deep down in my bones. His deep brown eyes locked on mine.

“I see so much of myself in Sam. And so much of my mom in you. I started Hope Speaks not only to help families financially, but because my mom walked a lonely road for a lot of years, and I never want anyone to have to follow that same path.”

The words wound through me, snaking their way to my heart and ensnaring it. I blinked hard and swallowed the lump in my throat.

“Don’t give me too much credit, Crabby. For the most part, I’m still a selfish good-time guy.”

There was vulnerability in that statement. Like he wouldn’t allow himself to believe he was more than just the fun baseball guy.

I shook my head. “You might do a pretty good job of hiding it, but you’re so much more than that.”

Angling close, I pressed my lips against his cheek.

His breath hitched, and his body tensed. The hand on top of mine tightened. I hesitated for a moment, letting his five o’clock shadow tickle my lips.

His eyes met mine. Questions floating in his deep brown irises. His teeth pressed into his lower lip. And my heart skipped.

“Mom! You said ten minutes, but it’s already been eleven.”

I jumped backfrom Kyle just as Piper came barreling into the kitchen. “It’s been eleven minutes,” she repeated. “And I want milk.”

Kyle’s eyes were wide for a moment. Then he blinked away the expression and swallowed, shaking his head like he was shaking something off. Without a word, he turned back to the air fryer and got to work pulling out the nuggets.

“Milk.” Clearing my throat, I tried to focus on my daughter. But I was haunted by what had almost happened. I didn’t know whether I was relieved that we were interrupted or disappointed. Not that it mattered, because when it came to Kyle, I didn’t have time for anything more than a very low-maintenance friendship.

“Yes. Milk,” she gritted out, her jaw tight.

“Sure.” I glanced at Kyle again, but he was taking chicken nuggets out of the fryer with so much focus one would think he was defusing a bomb rather than making dinner. With a shake ofmy head, I pulled Piper’s favorite cup from the cabinet and took it to the fridge.

“What is that?” she asked, her tone full of accusation.

As I turned around, I glanced at my hand, and my heart sank. Oh no. In my distraction, I’d totally forgotten to hide the incorrect almond milk from my eagle-eyed child.

“Almond milk.”

“No.” She blinked. “That’s not my milk.”

With a calming breath in and back out, I set the milk on the counter. Then I turned back to her. “The carton is different, but it tastes the same.”

Piper shook her head. “I wantmymilk.”

“It’s the same, Pipe,” I repeated, holding tight to my patience so I didn’t betray the tension that was running through me. If she could sense it, then it’d only make the situation worse.

Piper blinked three times, and then a fourth, her anxiety starting to climb. “No.” She lifted a hand, but before she could smack the milk out of my grasp, I caught her wrist.

“Piper. Deep breath, please.”

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