Page 18 of Forget Me Knot

“Can I…” He gestures to me and the bat I’m holding like a sword in the air. “Can I help you?”

“Oh. Um… yes. Please. I think I’m just a little rusty.” And also I hate it here.

“Just a little.” His hands come to rest on my shoulders, a perfect weight pressing them down to a new position. “You’re too tense in your swing. Relax into it.”

Oh. Okay,Sporty Ken. Don’t mind if I do.

Jackson runs his hands from my shoulders down the length of my arm. His calluses hit every nerve ending on their way to my hands, where I still grip the bat as if my life depends on it. “Better. Bring your elbow just here.”

He adjusts that particular appendage and returns his hands to rest over mine. I feel as if I’m standing like a ragdoll right now, but apparently this is the sportsball position for not dying today. And I can’t lie, having Jackson’s arms caged around me is definitely preferable to my stance before.

“Now,” he whispers with a confidence that produces an unruly amount of belly fluttering, “when the next ball comes, put all your weight into your back foot for just a minute and then swing into the pitch as you shift your weight back to the front.”

His hand rests on my right hip for a total of eighteen glorious seconds, demonstrating his point, before returning to my hands, and I’m sure I will pass out before the ball ever comes.

The machine purrs. Nerves grow in my chest. It pops another ball at me, and with Jackson’s hands still tight around mine, I swing and make contact. Thecrackof the bat produces an instant smile, which turns into a whooping cheer from the man whose hands wrap around my waist and lift me into the air.

“Thatta girl! That was perfect. You’re a natural.”

He spins me around and taps the helmet rim up from where it’s fallen into my eyeline.

“A natural, I am not. But thank you for the help.” His fingers against my cheek would probably be more swoon-worthy if my hair wasn’t plastered to my skin with sweat.

“You want another turn?”

He looks so hopeful, I almost feel bad for killing his spirit with a resounding, “No. Not even a little bit.”

I flick off the helmet fully and escape the cage before any more objects have the chance to fly at my face.

Being on the other side of the fence has so many benefits. The first, obviously, being protected from almost certain head injuries. The fact that I get to see just where those forearm and bicep muscles I’ve been admiring are coming from is a veryclose second. Jackson clearly didnotearn them making floral arrangements.

“You’re really good!” I shout over the sound of another ball heading his way. He cracks it with the bat and answers in the same breath.

“Thanks. Been playing my whole life.”

“Really?”

“Oh yeah,” he answers, making contact with another. “Played in college and almost went pro. My brother did go semi-pro a few years ago. He’s got it in his blood in a way I guess I just didn’t.”

Jack plays baseball professionally? He did not give off the sportsman vibe to me. More like a human version of a grumpy cat meme. An angry sailor in love with the sea. Or a lone woodsman scorned by life and lost love.

And obviously I've spent too much time musing over the wrong brother.

Does he manage the rental on the side? Or maybe Jackson takes the brunt of the labor while his twin does whatever it is that he does—like growling at kittens or curating the perfect apology playlist.

“Our family owns the store.” Jackson turns his head to me, like he’s not even worried about taking a hit, and gestures to the equipment store we walked through earlier. “My folks are around here somewhere. I’m sure they’d love to meet you.”

“Oh, yeah. Sure. I’d like to say hi.”

He hits a few more before turning off the machine with a smile and joining me on the other side of the fence. “So, Dinah Belle Knot. Sister of Emory. Wearer of donut printed pant—”

I slap a hand over his mouth with a giggle. “Do not finish that sentence. I beg of you.”

I feel his smile grow beneath my palm.

“Tell me about yourself. What made you want to make pretzels in our tiny little town?”

“Well,” I remove my hand, and he clasps it with his. “My dad taught me how to bake pretzels as a teenager, and I just fell in love with it. All the flavors. All the butter…”

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