Page 66 of Rosie and the Beast Next Door

“This is not time for dirt on your dress, Rosie!” Charlie yelled. “You’ve got this!”

I wasn’t trying to miss my hits on purpose this time. But my head wasnotin the game.

I took a deep breath and widened my stance. I could do this. Icould. Max brushed his thumb over his lips as he stared at me heatedly. Wait. Was that a secret message to me? Could it mean that he wanted to kiss me later? Was my plan actually working?

“Strike three!”

Oops. I’d been so busy contemplating Max’s mouth, I hadn’t swung at all. I tossed the bat down and went back into the dugout. My team patted me on the shoulders, and gave me side hugs, until I wound up next to Dylan on the metal bench.

“What happened out there?” he asked. “You were killin’ every hit until now.”

“It’s Max,” I whispered. “He gets in my head.”

“You’re not losing on purpose, right?”

“No,” I said vehemently. “Purely on accident this time.” I cringed. That sounded so bad out loud. “But since it makes him so happy to win, it’s not a total loss.”

He leaned closer to my ear so no one else could hear our conversation. “It makesyouhappy to win too.”

“Yeah, but I’m just me.”

“Isn’t that enough?” he paused. “I think so.”

Whoa. Way to hit below the emotional belt, Dylan. Before I could drum up a response, Bennett interrupted us.

“Savage, you’re up next!”

Dylan patted my thigh in a way that proved he had no care for my poor nerves and then left the dugout to grab a bat.

I wasn’t the only person appreciating the sight of him doing his practice swings. His shirt—well, my shirt—was tight across his broad shoulders as he got into position. And when he swung, a portion of rock-hard, tanned sides and stomach were exposed to the rapt masses of Winterhaven.

I could tell you this—no crowd has ever watched practice swings as intensely as they did that day.

Hudson was on first base, Charlie on second, and Dylan was up. He turned to grin at me before he stepped up to the plate. If I thought Max’s grin was knee-melting, that was only because I hadn’t been hit with the full-force of Dylan’s Make ‘Em Weep version. What in the world were we doing all these complicated social media antics for? Just pop that baby in a few videos, and bam. Instant love at first sight for at least fifty percent of the population.

He and Max appeared to be having a stare down before Max got into position to pitch the first ball. It went wide, and Dylan didn’t swing.

“Ball!” the ump called.

Max scuffed his shoes on the dirt of the pitcher’s mound and spit near his feet. He wound his arm back and released. Dylan jumped back to avoid getting hit with it.

“Ball two!”

Max huffed and snatched the thrown ball out of the air as if it had deeply offended him. He threw it against his glove a few times and then squared his shoulders and got into position.

The moment it left his fingers, I could tell that this was going to be another wild throw. But instead of letting it go, Dylanswung. I held my breath as the ball cracked against the bat and went flying. Higher … higher …

He ran backward so he could look to where I was clinging to the chain link fence with my fingers. “That’s for you, Rosie!”

My fingers tightened on the metal as exhilaration raced through me.

Dylan turned and ran, and our team held still with anticipation, and then cheered, as the ball soared clear over the fence.

“Food tastes better afteryou’ve won,” I declared to Dylan—and anyone in earshot—as I took another bite of the chocolate chip cookie Dylan’s mom had made. She’d brought enough for both teams to have some, because she was classy like that. But ours definitely tasted like victory.

Dylan was lying on the worn quilt in the park, staring up at the gray-blue sky, his hands clasped across his stomach, his eyes closed. This might be the first time I’d seen him look so relaxed. Hudson had needed to take a work call, and Bennett and Charlie had offered to go scrounge up some dinner for all of us from one of the food stands, so it was just the two of us—and the rest of Winterhaven milling around the park and setting up their own picnics.

This close, I could see the faintest scatter of freckles along his nose and upper cheek bones. His beard was trimmed close to his jawline, still allowing for his jaw muscles to be on display, and it framed his peach lips. The cut on his cheek from the last gamehe’d played was mostly healed but was still a couple-inch red dash.

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