Page 17 of Forget Me Knot

By the time I finish off the look with mascara, tinted lip balm, and my white Chucks—because Emory is right about everything, and Iamfeeling fresh—there’s a knock at my loft door.

I swing it open and am immediately hit with that same insta-attraction I experienced the first time I saw Jackson. Wearing a backwards hat like it’s his j.o.b., a fitted baseball tee, and well-worn jeans, he’s so casually cool, I want to squeal with delight. His perfect smile greets me immediately, just before he offers me a small bouquet of mini, pastel pink roses—similar to the ones he gave me that first night—and places a tender kiss on my cheek.

“You look gorgeous,” he says, breath wisping against my cheek.

I pull the roses up to cover what I know is a smile that’s starting to quickly lean towards loopy. “Hi.”

Pulling the door open, I welcome him into my little home. “I’ll just put these in water and we can go, yeah?”

“Sure. I thought we’d walk this evening since it’s nice out.” He steps into my loft and immediately seems as if he’s filling the space. “I’ve been wondering what you’ve done with the place. We just redid the floors and windows before you moved in.”

“Oh, right. So you're my landlord, too?” Aside from slipping my requested rent check into the Petals’ mailbox the afternoon ofdonut-gate,I haven’t given another thought to Jack as my landlord. Pulling a Scarlett O’Hara instead—I’ll worry about that tomorrow.

But I guess it makes sense that the brothers are in business together. They’re clearly identical, and I think I remember reading in a magazine or article at some point that identical twins typically operate as a unit. Living together. Working in similar fields. Even marrying and having kids at similar times. I have briefly wondered who names their twins something so similar. Jackson and Jack? Seems like it would be hard to keep them straight, but who am I to judge? I’m named after a folk song, and I encouraged Emory to name my niece Pam during what had to be my fifth time through a rewatch ofThe Office. Em, thank goodness, denied my request and named her first alpaca Pam, instead, and Molly became Molly.

“Iamyour landlord,” Jackson says with a hint of embarrassment. “Hope that doesn’t make you uncomfortable. The place is beautiful, though. I love the artwork and the whole vibe you have goin’ on in here. It’s very… you.”

“You can say it.” I smile, seeing the way his eyes take in the splattering of color across every surface of the open concept apartment. From the art on the walls to the mismatched pillows on the brown leather couch, the shades of mint, orange, and lavender patterned blankets hanging from a ladder in the corner, and the variety of colored glasses and ceramic pottery I have stacked on the open kitchen shelves. “It’s a lot.”

“It’s busy, I’ll give you that. But not in a bad way.”

I have to laugh. My mama always said I was busy. Her busy bee, singin’ and dancin’ in the kitchen. “I am busy.”

Jackson stretches out his hand and interlocks our fingers when I meet him halfway. “I like that you left your mark on this place. It looks like you feel at home. Like you’re here to stay.”

Warmth spreads in my chest. “I am.”

“Good.” He lets his thumb pass over my knuckles, and man, that simple action sends a skittering of goosebumps up my arms. “You ready to have a good time, Dinah Belle?”

“Lead the way. But why don’t you tell me what the deal is with the locked door in the hallway downstairs on the way.” I can’t hide my giant smile as he winks and chuckles under his breath.

“All in good time, Dinah Belle,” he teases and leads me out of the apartment and into the night.

Baseball. It had to be baseball.

I knew this man was too perfect to be true.

Now, I’m a pretty easy goin’ Southern girl, but if there is one sportsball that I do not like, it is the baseball sportsball. Can you tell I love sports?

Sooooo much.

I’mnervous-sweating and not in a cute,she’s glisteningsort of way. Spring in Georgia is warm, but I expected tonight’s activities to take place inside. Maybe a movie or a casual round of bowling. Or maybe… just maybe… we would stumble across a dazzling donut shop, and I could get another dozen to top off the other batch.

But no. Instead, I’m currently geared up to the nines—helmet and elbow pads included—because I’m pretty sure when Jackson saw the look on my face as we pulled up to the batting cages located behind a sports equipment store, he knew he’d made acalculated misstep. So he insisted I put on as much padding as possible, and he obviously was not wrong.

Balls are literally flying at my moist—bleh—face at a speed I’m not at all comfortable with. One zooms right by my cheek, and Jackson cheers me on like it's the most normal thing in the world. Death by baseballs.

“Wait for your pitch, Dinah,” he coaches, but I’m too nervous to turn my head towards him. “Choke up on the bat.”

“I don’t know what that means!”

He chuckles. “Grip it higher on the handle.”

Just as I slip my hands up a bit like Jackson directed, another death-ball races past my face again, but I hold in my scream like the fearless warrior I am and ignore the pellets of sweat falling into my eyes.

“You got it. Now, wait for the next one and swing just before it gets to the plate.”

I swing, let out a screech, and miss completely. I can’t even be embarrassed about my lack of skill, as I’m more worried about when my turn will be over and I can escape this humid prison. Before I know what’s happening, the gate for my exit opens with a squeak and Jackson’s at my side.

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